


The Inquisitor's Lover

by Silvershine



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon, F/M, Flashbacks, Orlesian Ball, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Unplanned Pregnancy, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-03 02:31:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 87,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2834876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvershine/pseuds/Silvershine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The commander of the Inquisition is in love with the Inquisitor. It's probably fairly obvious to anyone with eyeballs. But fumbling into a relationship isn't easy when you're haunted by your past and events conspire to interrupt.</p><p>(Cullen-centric, romance, an attempt to expand on the events of the game)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Honnleath

**Honnleath**

 

Nestled between the Frostback Mountains and the bogs of the Korcari Wilds, two of the most hostile and untamed topographical features in Thedas, Honnleath was a village that teetered on the edge of being interesting but never quite managed. Far from the reach of the seat of power in Denerim and the King’s army, and indeed quite out of reach of most forms of civilisation, Honnleath flourished in quiet isolation where the people were born, lived and died, often without hearing a word of news from the world outside the village boundaries. Many residents were still not sure if there was still a war with Orlais, and whether that made them Ferelden or Orlesian - neither really mattered in the long run.

The only people who ever came to Honnleath generally did not intend to. As a child, Cullen did not remember many visitors. Perhaps a dalish elf or two, and a couple of lost Chasind. Honnleath was left in peace for the most part, including where trade was concerned. Growing up in such a village presented two possible career paths - farmer or fisher. Cullen desperately needed to be neither of these things.

“And what is wrong with fishing, I’d like to know?” his father often demanded in those moments where attempting to cajole his young son to join him out on the lakes was met with a myriad of excuses. “Too good to follow in your old man’s footsteps are you?”

Cullen admired his father very much, but there was nothing less appealing than getting up too early in the morning to sit in a leaking boat for the best part of a day and then return home smelling like a dead fish. Farming was a little more tolerable, but Cullen still found that whenever his mother went down to the fields, she returned worn out and grumbling about the state of the harvest this year, and so it seemed that to be a farmer was to spend most days obsessing over the weather conditions, which were almost always wrong in a village like Honnleath.

“So what does his lordship wish to do?” his mother asked wearily, as she scrubbed a heap of turnips she had spent most of the year growing. As the only vegetable that thrived in their small scrap of the world, it was also the only vegetable they ever ate.

For the most part, the only twinge of interest Cullen had ever felt for a profession was when he saw Revered Mother Alice. The woman was the embodiment of wisdom and kindness, and spent her days either reading, ministering to her attentive Honnleath flock, or attacking her garden with a hoe and a spade. When she spoke to them from her puplit in their tiny village chantry, Cullen always listened enraptured while his siblings dozed or picked their noses. There was, as he suspected, more to the world than just Honnleath. Mother Alice confirmed as much. She led them in prayer and song, and told them the fascinating tales of Andraste and her crusades. The struggles, the opressions, the need to right wrongs… all these spoke to Cullen, and he knew that he could not simply sit on a lake until he died while someone like Andraste could simply decide one day to form an army and go on a march to bring enlightenment to the world with the power of her voice alone. There had to be more to life than simply surviving from one day to the next. It was not enough to simply live, but to impress a change upon the world around you, to make a difference and leave the world a different place than the one you entered.

There was a problem with this ambition, however.

“It’s wonderful you are interested in serving the Chantry,” the Revered Moth had told him warmly. “Unfortunately, men cannot take the same vows or lead the people in prayer.”

“Why not?” Cullen could not hide the dismay at his thwarted plans.

“It is the way it is,” Mother Alice told him gently. “It is not for us to question why Andraste chose to bestow the privilege of leading the Chant of Light on her fellow women alone, but that does not mean you cannot serve. You may, in time, become a Brother. For now, perhaps you would like to join the choir? You have such a sweet voice - if you cannot lead in the chant, you can certainly lead us in song.”

Somewhat dissatisfied, Cullen had agreed nontheless. Hobbies were hard to come by when you lived in the only fertile and temperate gap between a mountain and a marsh, and so he threw himself with nothing short of absolute dedication into Song. If it was the Maker’s will that he sit beside the Chantry fire and read songs all day instead of toiling with his mother and older brother in the water-logged fields, who was he to disobey?

He could not shake the feeling that Andraste would not have stopped short, simply because she had been told things simply were the way they were.

But then she had been burned at the stake.

The truly crucial epiphany came later when, in one of those rare instances, strangers arrived in the village of Honnleath who were neither lost nor simply on their way to other places.

 

* * *

 

**Templars.**

 

Cullen had heard of them, and Revered Mother Alice had mentioned them once or twice as possible occupations for men within the chantry, but it was another matter seeing one in person.

There were four of them that day, arriving on horseback in full plate armour like knights from a story. They were not so much mere men, but metal entities of embodied authority. The villagers deferred to them instantly, and upon politely being requested to show the way to the home of the mage called Wilhem, had obliged with speedy obedience. Cullen had watched them march through the village in awe, following at a fairly safe oggling distance. The light glinted off the angles and curves of their armour, transforming their silhouettes into imposing icons - warriors of the Chant. Guardians of the mages.

Cullen did not know much of mages. He knew there was one in the village, there at the sanction of his circle, which was apparently unusual although he seemed much like everyone else - except his house occasionaly let off the odd bang or belched purple smoke from the cellar windows. All Cullen knew was that he had a son named Matthias who was an insufferably smug bastard who made the other village kids do as he demanded by threatening to have his father turn them into slugs if they didn’t obey. Cullen had punched him in the stomach once, though he forgot why, and had yet to be turned into a slug. However, this might have been because Matthias was four years older and twice as large and had settled for stomping Cullen’s face into the turnip field instead.

Some of the villagers seemed a little concerned about the templars arrival, and for once there was a lull in the humdrum daily activity of the village, as people dawdled about the village square pretending (and failing) to look busy while keeping a close eye on Wilhelm’s house. The templars emerged after a time.

“We’ll be visiting again, ser,” one was saying. “The circle condones your research, but hopes you understand the need for oversight."

“I certainly understand interference when I see it, yes,” said Wilhelm, who didn’t look all too happy that day.

“It is for your own protection,” the templar continued. “Although the protection of the village is foremost in the Knight-Commander’s eyes.”

“Of course,” said Wilhelm with false alacrity, before slamming the door as politely as was possible.

When the templars began to head back to the fence where they had pitched their horses, Cullen seized his chance. He sidled up and set about changing his fate.

“What does the symbol on your armour mean?” he asked.

The templar looked down at him, though his face was obscured by the visor of his helmet. He was apparently used to being pestered by random peasant children. “It is the sword that killed the prophet Andraste, saving her from the flame. It is a symbol of mercy.”

“How heavy is your armour?”

“Very heavy.”

“Can I see your sword?”

“Another time.”

“How do you become a templar?”

“With many years of vigorous physical, mental, and spiritual training.”

“Can I be a templar?”

“Could you take a vow of silence?”

Cullen said nothing as he tried to figure out what this meant, which seemed to amuse the templar. He laughed as he swung himself onto his horse and signalled the others to ride. “It’s not a life I advise to be chosen on a whim. Go back to your parents, boy.”

And with that, he rode off. But the seed had been planted, and for the first time Cullen had absolute certainty he knew what he wanted to do with his life.

* * *

 

The templars visited once every few weeks after that. It turned out that Wilhelm had acquired some sort of golem servant - an old dwarven relic of stone that crunched about the mage’s house and was heard more often than it was ever seen. This was terrible. It only gave insufferable Matthias even more ammunition with which to threaten the other village boys, who now not only had to fear being turned into slugs, but also being crushed by the gigantic stone servant.

Wilhelm assured everyone, especially the templars whenever they arrived, that the servant was totally under control and was the source of a wealth of knowledge that stood to benefit his peers back at the circle. This was not entirely true it seemed, when one day there was quite a commotion about Wilhelm’s house and it came to light that the golem had crushed Wilhelm to death. Cullen didn’t have the honour of seeing this, but he was told by some very morbid boys that being ‘ground to a pulp’ was perhaps the most accurate description of what poor Wilhelm’s wife had found.

Matthias lost some of his bravado after that, and the village gained the permanent fixture of a petrified golem in the centre of the town square. It seemed to have broken down completely, and Wilhem’s wife had at once disposed of any possible means of reanimating the monster with some traders and that was that. When the templars returned, they didn’t even seem at all surprised.

“And no one else was hurt?” the Knight Commander asked Wilhelm’s wife.

“Well, the brute crushed some of my chickens as well,” said the wife, in a way that suggested she weighed this as equally devastating to the demise of her husband.

This would be the templars last visit to Honnleath, Cullen was sure of it. They watched over mages, and with no other mages in the village, their business was at an end. Cullen scampered up to them as they made their way back to their horses, and he thought he heard a faint groan from the knight-commander who was quite familiar with him by now.

“Take me with you,” he begged.

“We are not recruiters,” sighed the commander.

“But I want to be a templar! I would be a good templar!”

“Being a templar is not about dashing around being gallant with a sword.” The commander folded his arms, and gave the boy a stern look, determined to put an end to the matter once and for all. “It is a religious order. It is not for boys who wish to play soldier.”

“I don’t want to play anything - I want to be a templar!”

“You would have to learn the Chant of Light-”

“I already know the chant-”

“By heart?”

All those days by the hearth with the Revered Mother paid off. “ _At last did the Maker from the living world make men. Immutable, as the substance of the earth, with souls made of dream and idea, hope and fear, endless possibilities-”_

The knight-commander interrupted him, lest he launch into any more verses. One could spend a whole day reciting verses from the Chant of Light and barely have covered the first chapter. “Did your parents teach you that?”

Cullen shook his head. “Revered Mother Alice did. She thinks I could be a templar too.”

“You probably should have led with that. How old are you?”

“Thirteen.”

The templar studied him for a moment, almost literally measuring him up and wondering if there was a growth spurt due that would bring the boy up to standard. “And your parents are home now?”

Not only were his parents home, but so was his sister. When Mia opened the door to a trio of templars, her eyes flared wide before narrowing on her brother. “What did you do?” she hissed.

His family was not entirely unaware of his ambitions to become a templar. He had been insisting on becoming one since the first day they had set foot in the village and had taken to brandishing a tree branch and wearing a bucket on his head while attacking imaginary mages that usually came in the form of fence posts and fat farm geese. Mostly they had just rolled their eyes and assumed this was some sort of phase and that soon he would be pretending to ride griffons and proclaiming he was going to be a grey warden. They looked at him now in mingled surprise and dismay. It was one thing to play pretend… quite another to bring a Knight-Commander to the house who was now asking them deep, probing questions about the boy they had assumed was just a work-shy dreamer. They looked at their son as if they were seeing him for the first time.

“This is really what you want?” his mother asked him.

“This isn’t just something you can give up after a week and come home,” his father warned. “This is a commitment for life, Cullen.”

His parents could have vetoed it right then and there, thanked the Knight-Commander politely for humouring their troublesome son. And though they were not without love and affection for the boy, their eyes glinted with the opportunity presented to them. Four mouths to feed had always stretched them thin, and finding a husband and wife for the eldest of their children in such a small village had not been easy. But here was a man offering to take their youngest son, to educate him, house him, train him, and turn him into something worth mentioning in their letters to their intolerably smug cousins over in Redcliffe who had been bragging about their children getting jobs up at the castle for years.

Only Mia seemed genuinely upset at the thought that her only younger brother would be leaving them. “Who will play chess with me now?” she demanded. But that did not seem to be the real reason for her distress, and she tearfully begged him to write as often as he was able, before locking herself in her room and refusing to say goodbye because he simply ‘didn’t deserve it’. It would be years before Cullen could appreciate that she had been more than just a sister, but also his closest friend.

Cullen’s oldest siblings had been as pleasantly bemused as his parents. Catherine told him to behave and not let the family down by slacking off. Dunstan remarked that he had never heard of such a short templar, and had handed him an old Alamarri coin that he must have found while working in the field that very morning, claiming it was a good luck charm.

The templars had told him to bring nothing - the first challenge of templar training was to learn how to renounce worldly possessions and embrace the stark monastic lifestyle of discipline and prudence that were necessary to become a Brother of the Faith. But a little coin slipped easily inside the the hem of his coat, and in the space of twenty years, it had never left his person.

 

* * *

 

Summer in the Frostback mountains could still catch you unawares. Cullen coughed as the cold air caught in his lungs upon leaving the relative warmth of Skyhold’s main hall and stepped across the impacted ice beginning to form on the steps. The sun was setting, casting long shadows from the ramparts, though the courtyard was still bustling with activity - soldiers, farriers, servants, refugees, dignitaries, messengers, clerics. Had any of these people believed even a month ago that they would have ended up together in a place like this.

Even at this late hour, it wasn’t wise to dawdle. Plunging his hands into the lining of his coat, Cullen moved with speed and purpose across the courtyard, striding with intent towards the southern tower which he had called home for the last few weeks.

Invariably, this was a walk that would take him all of two minutes. But Cullen had spent the last hour in the war room wrangling with Josephine over the wisdom of telling some uppity Orlesian nobles to go hang themselves in response to complaints that the Inquisition had ‘stolen away’ a few heirs who were now learning how to apply poultices to injured soldiers in the lower courtyard. The ambassador had won that argument quite rightly, and so instead of a blistering diatribe, a pleasant note thanking the nobles for the service of their heirs was being written up. And in this last hour of dealing with this lone matter, several more matters had arrived that demanded attention. Cullen had barely made it to the bottom of the steps of Skyhold’s law than recruits were intercepting him.

“The report you wanted, Commander,” said the first man, handing over a thick wad of papers that could have been any one of a number of reports he had commissioned recently.

“Thank you,” Cullen said roughly, not breaking his stride. A small chapter of training templars in the yard paused and saluted him as he passed. He nodded a perfunctory response.

A hooded woman appeared at his elbow. “The Starkhaven engineer arrived half an hour ago, Commander. We’ve put him up in the tavern, as you requested.”

“Let him rest the night and bring him to my office tomorrow morning. He’ll want to inspect the trebuchets first, I imagine. Inform Lady Josephine to arrange payment, if you would.”

“He’s expensive,” the woman observed. “But he told me he could have those trebuchets firing with enough accuracy to strike the fleas off a mabari’s back from three miles away.”

“I look forward to _that_ invasion force,” he muttered, and accepted two further notes, a care package from the kitchens, and four outpost status reports before he finally made it to the steps of his tower.

Knight-Captain Rylen - or just Ser Rylen now, he supposed - was descending the tower steps towards him, whistling faintly. “You look half frozen, Commander,” he said, “I’ve left the fire going. Some correspondence on your desk too.”

“Thank you, I’ll look it over-”

“Perhaps you should call it a night, sir,” Rylen interrupted, peering at him through the gathering gloom of the evening. “Everything’s in hand. And I’m half tempted to call the healer on you, the way you look.”

“I didn’t appoint you to flatter me, Rylen.”

“Oh, there’s no danger of that happening, sir.” Ser Rylen hesitated, as if there was more he wanted to say. Cullen clapped him on the shoulder with his free hand and attempted a smile that may have done more to alarm than reassure. “I am well. Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix, fear not.”

“Good. I shouldn’t like to wake up and find myself Commander of the Inquisition’s standing army tomorrow.” The whistle resumed and Rylen continued on down the steps, leaving Cullen in peace.

The office was just as warm as promised, but it did nothing to soothe the bite of cold that had pervaded his extremities for months now, long before he’d ever come up into the cold mountains. Dropping the stack of reports on the desk, Cullen threw himself into the chair and picked up the pile of correspondence that had accumulated since he’d last sat here two hours before.

He should have gone to bed. He knew that. But he would refrain, as he did every night, until he was too exhausted not even the customary clench of fear and panic in his gut at the thought of falling asleep could keep him awake. He had yet to reach that point, even though his vision blurred and slid and his fingers fumbled as if his hands were suddenly too big and heavy for such a delicate task of opening the wax seals of the letters.

He rubbed his face slowly as he read the first message; a letter from an old colleague in Kirkwall, describing further developments in the recovery of the city state. By all accounts recovery was moving backwards - a typical result of yet another occupation battling for supremacy with the insurgents. The only reason Kirkwall had not flopped over and submitted at once was almost entirely down to the Guard Captain, Aveline. That tenacious Ferelden would have been a perfect addition to the Inquisition if not for the fact that Cullen knew she would never leave her adopted Kirkwall to the mercy of an unchallenged exalted march.

Not like he had.

The next letter hit him harder than a punch in the gut the second he recognised the handwriting. He was tempted to put the letter to one side, perhaps drop it on the floor - or in the fire - and pretend he had not seen it. She couldn’t blame him then. And he would not have to face up to the churning sensation in his chest that threatened to overwhelm… but that was not her fault. And it was already too late.

With a heavy sigh he snapped the seal and spread the letter flat on his desk.

Admonishments. He had expected that. She had thought him dead. For the third time. She asked him to imagine her surprise to find he was not only alive (yet again), but now Commander of the Inquisition, and still had not seen fit to inform her of either fact. Was it too much to ask? Did he not care? She’d had a new baby, by the way, which they had named after him when they had thought him to be dead (really dead this time). She told him she was now seriously considering changing its name.

The knot in Cullen’s stomach loosened a little, as his sister rambled on at greater length about the developments in her own life. The baby’s first tooth. The twins had gotten into a fight over Matthias’ daughter. She had gone back to Honnleath to lay flowers on the graves of their parents and Dunstan. She had already lost one brother. She didn’t want to lose another.

Signed _Mia_ , with a small not beneath saying, _‘This took me all of fifteen minutes to write and I have three screaming children to feed. What’s your excuse?’_

Cullen pushed the letter aside, resigned to the peculiar feeling his sister had managed to provoke just by contacting him. It was like that with any reminder of his old life. The guilt and the shame welled up from depths he had forgotten he even repressed, and at once he felt like he was back there… worthless and unworthy and unable to relate to his own flesh and blood. All those worried missives he had ignored during those first years, until ignoring them became its own source of guilt, and for a while just receiving a letter had triggered attacks of panic so sharp he had been left literally without breath.

The Revered Mother in Greenfall had told him it was grief - despair for a life he had lost and the death of the person his sister thought she was writing to. She had said the reason he could not write to his own sister to let her know he was even alive was because to do so felt like a deception, like an impersonation of the dead to prey on the living. Like a demon.

It was all in his head, she said. He would reconcile himself one day, when he found what he had lost. The reminders of his old life would always hurt until then.

He shook his head, attempting to clear it of the growing headache and the dour mood that had gripped him. “Don’t be a fool…” he whispered to himself. He wouldn’t be that man anymore. His sister deserved his attention, and like a good brother - and normal, functioning human being - he would write a response and allay all her fears.

He sat for the next hour over a blank piece of parchment. The ink had dried on his quill without committing a single word to paper, and he found himself staring instead at the fire, and the things he thought he saw moving between the flames. People long dead. Monsters since slain. But the screams could still be heard.

The door to his office creaked and he started. The sight of the Lavellan pulled him back from his memories and back into the present. “Inquisitor,” he began to rise. “Is there something you need?”

The small woman smiled gently with a slight tentative edge. “I did not mean to disturb you,” she said, her words soft and measured. The inquisitor never spoke as if she did not carefully consider the weight of each word. “I realise you may be off duty.”

He offered her a wry smile. “I believe there is no such thing in the Inquisition,” he said, gesturing to the pile of paperwork he had yet to sort through. He would have offered her a seat, but unless she wanted to perch on teetering piles of books, he was running short on chairs. “I apologise, I have not gotten round to organising this space yet-”

“It’s quite alright,” she said graciously, and moved towards the fire with the kind of grace that was unique to dalish women. He had known many elves in his time - the circle had always been fairly evenly split between human and elf mages - and while elves had always been credited with the stereotype of gracefulness and nimble movement, there was nothing quite like the way the dalish moved, as if each footstep would not even make an impression on the softest snow. All she did was stand and warm herself near the flames, yet her natural poise gave her movements the elegance of a practised dancer.

“I wanted to ask if you had received any news of my clan?” she asked quietly, her long fingers spreading and flexing against the fire’s light.

He thought for a moment. “Josephine’s people are still en route, I believe,” he said slowly. “It will take time. Soldiers would have been quicker but-”

“But my clan has had previous dealings with heavily armed humans in the past, and they don’t tend to end well,” Lavellan finished for him. “I thought to go to them myself, but…”

“You have obligations,” he reminded her gently.

She sighed, resting a hand to the stone mantlepiece. “As much as I would like to show my clan I am alive and well,” she said, not noticing how his gaze turned inward, “I fear my Keeper would refuse to let me leave again. She would not accept any such ‘obligation’ to saving humans.”

“We all share the same sky,” said Cullen. “The situation is dire for all peoples.”

“I think they believe the breach will suck up all humans and stop short of the dalish because they hold to different gods.” The inquisitor smiled at him, inviting him into her joke. “Is your family quite as bad as mine?”

Cullen’s fingertips brushed Mia’s letter and he stared somewhere past the Inquisitor’s head. “I’m sorry to say my family is afflicted by me, not the other way around.”

“We cannot help who we love,” she said gently, the soft glow of the fire playing across the delicate angles of her face.

Cullen coughed slightly and sank back into his seat. “I’m sure the ambassador will inform you the moment she hears any news. She would know how important it is to you.”

Lavellan looked at him sharply, those large clever eyes darting over him. “Are you alright?”

It was not a good night to entertain guests. Mia’s note had dredged up ancient pains, and combined them with more immediate ones. A draft of lyrium would ease both, but he shut that thought down and merely shook his head. “Tired, is all.”

The inquisitor nodded her understanding. “I won’t bother you anymore, Commander.”

As she slipped towards the door, he shot to his feet. “You don’t bother me, Inquisitor,” he told her quickly, alarmed to think he had given such an impression. “At all! I enjoy it, in fact! I mean.. which is to say… you may bother me any time you wish. If you like… It’s _no_ bother.”

She had paused with her hand on the door, staring at him in mute surprise, which was quite understandable. He thought she might inch backwards out the door at this point, but after a moment a slow smile spread across her lips, dimpling her cheeks. “I will… bear that in mind,” she said, averting her eyes. “Good night, Commander.”

The moment she was gone, Cullen pressed his hands over his face.

Something about that woman always managed to make him feel like an awkward nineteen year old again. Odd how Mia’s reminder of his youth hurt to the point of nausea, but Lavellan… she made him remember the part of his youth that didn’t hurt.

He just wished it didn’t have to be the fist-gnawingly embarrassing part.

  
  
  
  
  



	2. The Circle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen stands on the edge.

 

**The Circle**

****  
  
  


The knighthood began when the vigil ended, although it was a mere formality. All the tests had been undertaken weeks ago; the certifications stamped and countersigned, the armour measured to fit. The completion of six years of intensive training was never left to chance. All that remained was the time-honoured tradition of the First Vigil, three days and three nights spent within the inner sanctum of a chantry without food, company or sleep. The intention was to spend that time in meditation, prayer, and mental preparation for the upcoming duty.

If Cullen was honest, he might have nodded off once or twice before the end, though any observer would have assumed he had merely entered an intense state of meditation, such was his piety. Even so, it meant that the momentous occasion of being knighted at last as a templar was marred by the symptoms of hunger and sleep deprivation, symptoms further exacerbated by the honour of the first draught of liquid lyrium.

Cullen would never forget the way that first taste had set fire to his throat and frozen in the pit of his stomach. He realised that three days of fasting may have been less about spirituality than attempting to forestall the paralysing nausea that followed the lyrium dose. It affected everyone differently, the Knight-Commander had said, but everyone acclimatised in the end. For Cullen it had taken all his remaining strength not to faint dead away into the arms of the tiny, old Grand Cleric who had been reciting the formal oaths with him.

After only one week to adjust to the new regime before Cullen was handed his official post: Knight-Templar of Kinlock Hold.

The position was a point of pride. The Hold was the largest and oldest of the Fereldan circles, home to the most famous templars and mages, both past and present. He had not hesitated to write to Mia and inform her of the honour, and promised to write once more when he was settled in, which he duly did.

****

_Dearest Mia,_

_Things are not quite as I expected in the Circle. For the last six years I have been instructed in the ways to identify and destroy demons, to contain and neutralise mages, and protect them from others who would wish to harm or exploit them. It is odd to find the Circle feels so… ordinary. It is not unlike the Barracks in Denerim where we were trained. This is a school. The people here are students and tutors and they behave as you would expect students and their teachers to behave._

_My duties so far have involved escorting the youngest mages between their classes with the chantry Sisters and keeping vigilance over the library and mess hall. It seems to be that our skills are mostly employed towards the children, who have little control over their powers or sense of proportion and will set each other on fire over the pettiest squabble._

_The only real tensions I have detected so far are during meal times; the mages have their cliques and there is a pecking order of some kind which I do not fully understand yet, and mages who flout these unspoken rules have been the source of a few arguments. A Libertarian took the last pastry last night, and an Aequitarian set fire to his beard. They were adults, in case you were wondering._

_I hope all is well at home. Is Matthias still trying to court you? Have you tried physical violence with him yet?_

_Affectionately your brother,_

_Cullen_

_**** _

After years in the barracks with only fellow templars for company and the odd mage to assist with training, it was a strange feeling to suddenly be surrounded by the very people his training had been so focused on… and find very little use for it.

By and large, the mages simply went about their business. They studied in the library, yawned in the halls, laughed with their friends in the mess hall and flirted outside the dorms. Cullen at first scrutinised them all, searching for those telltale signs of demonic possession of blood magic, and found that he simply gave himself eyestrain.

Of all things, he was unprepared to feel so ignored. Most of the mages treated the templars like they simply didn’t exist; looking through them, passing by with barely a nod, or even talking about them as if they were pieces of furniture. He knew templars were expected to keep a distance between themselves and their charges, and the anonymity their helmets provided was no accident, but Cullen had been led to believe that mages at the very least respected templars. What he found was naked indifference.

“Do not mistake their avoiding your eye as indifference,” said Knight-Commander Gregoir when he had asked how Cullen and the other new recruits were settling in. “Mages feel many things for templars - it is almost never indifference.”

He was warned to be wary of the Libertarian fraternity and their ilk. “They will make life difficult for you where they can.”

It would be a while before Cullen became familiar enough to name the mages and understand their political affiliations within the Circle.

But almost from the first day he had been aware of Surana.

****

* * *

 

“Take this to Ser Morris, tell him we’ve found an alternative supplier for him at last, but I need hard numbers.” Cullen handed off a sheaf of papers to the messenger at his side, before turning his attention to the one on his other side. “This is for Lady Montilyet. Tell her the sugar puffs were greatly appreciated. Where is Barrow?”

“Here, sir?” From the crowd of ducklings following him across the courtyard, a young recruit emerged at his side.

“The mage recruits arrived yesterday?”

“Yes, Commander.”

“I have some free hours coming up and I’d like to meet them and make the situation at Skyhold to them clear in regards to their place and function. Have them meet me in the cloister gardens in an hour-”

“Yes, Commander!” Barrow began to zip away.

“Wait,” Cullen drawled after the overzealous recruit. “Invite Lady Montilyet as well, we’ll probably need her diplomacy. And make certain the templars are kept busy elsewhere. I do not want the war flaring up again within our own walls.”

“As you command,” Barrow bowed but hesitated to leave lest he get in trouble again. Cullen shooed him away with a short gesture and a sigh. He dismissed all but one woman to deal with one final piece of business.

“Your Dennet’s retainer?” He asked her.

“Yes, you asked for me, sir?”

“What was… that delivery I saw arriving at the stables this morning?” he asked her.

“Oh. That was a halla, sir.”

“And… what is it for?”

“For riding, sir.”

“I know that. _Whom_ is it for?”

“The Inquisitor, sir.”

He should have known, but he had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. While he was storming around Skyhold disciplining young, stupid recruits for thoughtless jokes about halla-tupping knife-ears and Cassandra agonised over how base racism could sink their organisation before it even got off the ground - there was the Inquisitor, determined to live up to stereotypes. “Now if she’d just go around grunting ‘shem’ at everyone, that would be perfect…”

He trailed off as he noticed a man crossing the courtyard ahead. Templar armour, ten years out of date. Ice flushed through Cullen’s veins and a familiar throbbing had begun at the edge of his vision. He met the cold eyes of the templar, and saw there the feverish glint of cruelty and madness, shining from a sallow face that was a mirror of his own.

“Sir?” Dennet’s assistant looked about in confusion, wondering why the Commander seemed to have tuned out.

Cullen swallowed and passed a hand over his eyes. “Yes,” he said, affirming nothing in particular except to try and centre himself again. “Well, keep up the good work. I won’t keep you.”

He didn’t look back at the templar as he made his way up the steps towards Skyhold’s main hall. He didn’t want to see if he was still there - or worse - had simply vanished, as figments of the imagination tended to do.

His footsteps on the stone echoed the thumping of his pulse behind his temples, loud enough to drown out the low, ambient conversation of those gathered at the benches, breaking their fast. Loud enough to nearly miss the soft voice of the Inquisitor greeting him. He gave a start when he felt a cool touch on his arm.

“Is everything alright Commander?” Lavellan had drawn him to a stop and was peering up at him in concern.

“As can be expected,” he replied a little more tersely than he intended. “Was there something you needed?”

“Oh dear, so I _can_ bother you after all?”

Cullen felt like biting his own tongue. “I apologise… I am a little unwell.”

“Nothing serious, I hope?” Worry clouded her bright, clear eyes, just a little too large and almond in shape to be human.

“Nothing a little food won’t fix, I’m sure.” He attempted a smile, and found to his surprise that it wasn’t so difficult.

“Then have breakfast with me. That’s an order” she said decisively, before quickly adding, “Can I actually order you to do things? I’m not too clear about that yet...”

He chuckled. Her position as Inquisitor was an odd one: half figurehead, half queen. He and the other advisers had put her in power through consensus, but that could just as easily remove her the same way. She had given them no cause to do so, and for that he was glad. He had held reservations at first, questioning Cassandra’s determination to thrust their ‘prisoner’ into such immense responsibility, but those reservations (whatever had been left of them by the time the archdemon had laid seige to Haven) had faded away when he’d seen her risk her life for what he had thought would be the final time, all just to buy time for their forces to escape.

By all rights she should have died that night. Some in the Inquisition adamantly believed she had died, but the Maker had returned her to them just as Andraste had returned her from the Fade.

Regardless of how much power she actually held officially, Cullen would follow her to the ends of Thedas. “Why don’t you give me an order and we’ll see what happens?” he suggested.

Lavellan’s huff of laughter was delightful, and he did not miss the slightly startled look that lit up her eyes, as if she was thinking something very devious indeed.

He wondered if his desire to follow her anywhere had much to do with her qualities as a leader, or there was something else that drew him…

“I-I don’t mean…” he began to stammer.

“Come have breakfast with me,” she repeated. “That’s an order.”

He touched his right hand to the breastplate above his heart. “As you command, Your Worship,” he said, with as much seriousness as he could manage when he was trying not to smile.

The Inquisitor always took her meals on the dais, where her throne was removed temporarily to make room for a table. Places were reserved for the advisors along this same table, but rarely did they ever eat together. Leliana kept to her loft  as much as possible, and Josephine usually sat with whichever dignitary or noble needed buttering up at that given time. Cullen almost always took his meals in his solar, where he could read reports and no one would notice if he wasn’t eating as much as he should.

Perhaps the Inquisitor’s insistence today demonstrated that she had been a little lonely in her lofty position at the head table.

“Varric usually sits with me,” she explained as they sat. “But I think he’s sulking a little after that fight with Cassandra.”

“I had wondered if Cassandra was a little angrier than usual, although it’s quite hard to tell,” he admitted.

“I will tell her you said as much,” she said.

“Please don’t,” he begged, only half joking.

Lavellan couldn’t even eat breakfast without looking like a picture of elegance. She arranged herself gracefully in her chair as servants bustled forth to offer platters. It seemed she preferred whichever platter seemed to hold the most meat, while Cullen signalled for some simple bread and a little gruel.

“I didn’t peg you for such a meat-eater,” he commented, as three sausages spilled onto her plate.

“The dalish are hunters mostly,” she said, “I’m surprised at the number of people here who assume I must subsist entirely on nuts and berries alone. What about you? That’s not what I’d call a soldier’s diet.”

“I never have much appetite in the morning,” he explained, picking at the bread with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. Seeking to change the subject, he turned to her. “So. A Halla.”

The Inquisitor’s face was a picture of innocence. “You noticed? Josephine already warned me you would despair.”

“Was it quite necessary?” he asked, a little chagrined to know Josephine already had him sussed out.

“I would argue so, yes,” the Inquisitor said, nibbling a rasher of bacon. “I trained with Halla. Horses are fine, but I find Halla more comfortable to ride. They’re faster and more nimble and can turn like lightning-”

“They can also barely hold a man’s weight, lack stamina, and spook whenever a leaf blows through the stables.”

“And apparently there are stereotypes about my people regarding Halla,” she continued. “Leliana already reprimanded me, so I have now been enlightened. My clan held an isolationist policy. I can count on one hand the number of humans I met before I arrived at the conclave, and it may surprise you to know that you are the first human man I have become acquainted with. So I fear I am unfamiliar with the stereotypes about my people, although I am learning. Apparently I also steal and eat human children, dance naked under full moons, and seduce human men and lure them to their doom.” She paused and gave him a small smile. “Well, one of those might be true.”

He tried not to rise to the bait, although he made a mental note to check when the next full moon was. “If it’s important to you, I wouldn’t keep your from the Halla. Your comfort is most important, and when your life is on the line, the more familiar you are with the animal, the better.”

“I appreciate that.” She granted him a wider smile. “Would you like to know some stereotypes the dalish hold about humans?”

“Oh, I can imagine.”

“When I was young, we were told that humans can steal years off your life by simply touching you. Human women could apparently give birth to whole litters of up to ten children at once, and human men are especially blessed in… well, I shouldn’t repeat what they say about the men. I’d fear you would find it flattering.”

She definitely had a flair for mischief despite her reserved manner. Cullen felt heat climb his neck and averted his gaze. If she was being truthful, and he was one of the first human men she had come to know, did she… wonder about his ‘blessings’?

“I, uh.” He was saved by the chiming from the bell tower, signalling it was three quarters past the hour. “As lovely as it was to keep your company, Inquisitor, I have to attend business.”

“May I walk with you?” she asked him.

She probably intended to quietly torment him some more. Cullen didn’t know whether he wanted to run or let her tease him all day. “I am only heading to the cloisters.”

“Good. I wanted to speak with Mother Giselle anyway.”

As they rose, Cullen automatically lifted a hand for her to help her step over the bench, something he only did for civilian women. He hadn’t realised he had done it until it was too late. He saw her hesitate, regard his upturned hand for a moment, before smiling faintly and slipping her small, slim hand into his.

The touch was like electricity. Like magic. Perhaps he really was stealing years off her life for how much power he felt with the mere sensation of her skin on his. The second she was clear of the bench he released her, but that did not stop the tingling in his palm that seemed to radiate up his arm.

“You’re more of a gentleman than you let on.”

“I… wouldn’t know, my Lady.”

The exit leading to the cloister gardens was only a short walk down the hall, which took them past several of the fort’s workers who rose and bowed to the Inquisitor as she passed. Lavellan nodded in return, not looking all that comfortable. To go from being a pariah to almost worshipped was clearly something she still grappled with.

As they stepped out into the cool crisp air of the gardens, Cullen took a deep breath, inhaling the soft floral scents. It occurred to him that his headache had retreated and his vision no longer flashed at the edges. Whether that was the meagre breakfast or Lavellan’s company, he didn’t know.

Along the opposite arcade he saw Josephine already talking with a small group of mages. The Inquisitor looked about. “Mother Giselle must be in the chantry,” she said. “I’ll bid you farewell then, Commander.”

Just Lavellan’s arrival in the gardens had caused a ripple of awareness as promenading nobles and chantry Sisters muttered excitedly to one another and bobbed in respectful bows.

Across the garden, Josephine and the mages had turned to see them.

“Take care, Inquisitor.” He resisted the temptation to touch her again, even just to pat her shoulder as he might any comrade.

_“HIM?! Absolutely not! Never again! This is unbelievable!”_

The shout had sounded from the other side of the garden where a speechless Josephine was now trying to calm an outraged female mage. Automatically Cullen put a hand to the pommel of his sword and crossed towards them. Emotional mages could be dangerous mages, and there were some parts of his templar training that would never be forgotten.

The second the mage saw him approach, she skittered back into the stone wall, arms held out defensively in front of her. “Keep him away from us!” she baked at Josephine, who hurried to stand between them. The other mages around them had also backed away, hands reaching for their staffs

“Please, you have nothing to fear!” Josephine beseeched her. “This is merely the Commander-”

“Cullen!” spat the mage. “Yes, we know! We Kinloch mages know _exactly_ who this man is!”

The bottom seemed to fall out of Cullen’s stomach, and he lowered his hand from his weapon. It fell numbly back to his side though the mages didn’t relax even one iota. Of course they wouldn’t. They were from Kinloch Hold.

Josephine’s confused eyes sought his own. “Do you know each other?” she asked, sounding a little desperate.

Cullen looked between the mages, each face a mixture of fear and hostility. He recognised none of them, though they seemed to know him. “I do not recall…” he admitted.

This seemed to have only further enraged the female mage. “You don’t even have the decency to remember the mages under your ‘care’?!” she turned to a wide-eyed Josephine. “I thought the Inquisition was different - but you fill your ranks with scum like this? Our agreement is off! If you had sense you would have locked this man up and charged him as a criminal!”

“Let us not be hasty,” pleaded Josephine.

“Do you even know the kind of man who leads your armies?”

“I understand Commander Cullen is an ex-templar, but there is no cause to-”

“For all your fine words, Lady Montilyet, nothing you can say could persuade us to work alongside this monster!” The mage was all but quivering with rage. “This man is insane! He caged us like animals and murdered innocent mages before he fled our circle ten years ago! May the Maker have mercy on us if the Inquisition is this world’s only hope, for may it burn.”

The mage stormed away, gathering the others as she went. In their wake the cloister gardens were utterly silent, with only the wind trickling through the trees to assure Cullen that he had not been struck deaf.

He had not seen Josephine this panicked since their retreat from Haven. “This,” she whispered as her gaze flitted about the gathered nobles and emmissaries, “is a categorical disaster.”

Cullen could not speak. He managed to turn, intending to return to his tower and perhaps bar the door for the rest of the day, when his gaze landed on the Inquisitor.

She stood in the archway of the arcade, hand resting against a blossom-covered column. She held his gaze for a moment, before she, like so many others in the garden, walked away.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Surana drew others as a flame drew moths. They fluttered around her, entranced by the fierce light she gave off without quite understanding why or what it meant. She was attractive certainly, but there were other more conventionally beautiful young women in the tower. She was undeniably intelligent, but far from the cleverest.

But there was something different about her nontheless. A combination of all her parts exerted a strange kind of gravity that kept so many in her thrall. She probably should have been investigated for blood magic the way the enchanters and the other apprentices doted on her.

Cullen hadn’t noticed her to begin with. She had been one more elf in a tower full of them. After seeing elves in Denerim it had been a revelation to come to Kinloch Hold and find so many of the elves happy with their lot. Happier than the humans by far. Surana was no different in that respect. She had come from the alienage, born to parents who couldn’t afford to feed her or keep her, to whom it had been a relief when she had manifested her powers at a young age. They had sent her to the templars straight away.

To be a mage was to escape poverty, to enter into an institution that did not discriminate between human or elf, where she would be educated and respected and never fear going hungry. Surana did not fear or begrudge the templars. When she passed them in the hall she nodded and smiled as she would when passing a mage. She was also determined to learn all the names of the templars, despite the rules.

This had become apparent the first time Cullen had met her. He had been keeping watch over the store room and the Tranquil mages when she had arrived with a list longer than her arm on behalf of one of the senior enchanters. Some time later she had emerged again carrying so many boxes and scrolls that she could barely see round them. Almost at once, a litany of some description had clattered to the floor.

“Bother!” she had announced, unable to fetch the rogue item with her hands full.

Cullen had taken pity. He scooped up the scroll and replaced it upon her teetering pile of supplies. Surana had beamed at him, and the effect had been quite dramatic upon his poor nerves. “You are my hero, Ser Knight!”

“I-It’s no trouble.” He had tried to shuffle back to his post, but he had stoked her curiosity. He was eventually to learn that the curiosity of Surana was a legendary thing.

“You’re new here aren’t you?” she asked, continuing to chatter at him even though every moment she dallied she was more likely to drop her cargo. “What’s your name?”

But he had been warned by his superiors to keep his distance. “I shouldn’t say, miss.”

One of the Knight-captains had chosen that moment to visit the storeroom. “Cullen!” he called. “Irving is wondering where his apprentice is. Stop harassing her and get back to you station.”

Surana had grinned in triumph and from that point on if she had ever come across him without his helmet in place, she had made a point to almost mockingly greet him with a gracious. “Ser Cullen.”

He had always noticed her after that. It was a terrible distraction. He had noticed her popularity and had begun to work out why it was so: her innate curiosity. She flattered her tutors with probing questions, even long after classes were over and the other apprentices had left. She wanted to know everyone’s story, and every new arrival in the tower was treated to at least one gentle inquisition, whereupon Surana might treat that person as if they most interesting and important person in the world. And when she was done listening, the girl could _talk_ , and could in moments truly become the most interesting and important person in the room regardless of how many people she was sharing it with.

Cullen often saw her holding court in the mess hall, entertaining her fellow apprentices. She could make them laugh one minute and then have them hanging on her every word with rapt attention the next. She had a similar effect on the enchanters, who Cullen had heard second-hand often feuded over who should be the girl’s mentor (no less than the First Enchanter himself had won that one).

In retrospect, it was obvious that Surana was destined for great things far beyond the small world of Kinloch Hold. And with every passing day, Cullen’s infatuation with her grew. He knew he was not her only admirer, and he did not fool himself for a second that simply because she knew his name, she spared him any kind of thought.

It was around this time that Knight-Captain Sinjun had been forcibly removed from the tower, and sent to some far-flung province where he would be of no use to anyone. Templars could form an impressive wall of silence around their internal affairs, but some careful questioning of the right people had revealed the reason why.

Sinjun had been forcing himself on one of the apprentices, abusing his power with threats to report the girl as a blood mage if she didn’t cooperate.

It was one more reason why the distance between templars and mages was so important. When displeasing a templar brought the risk of devastating retaliation, sexual relationships were totally off limits. To even entertain such thoughts was dangerous and irresponsible. And so Cullen pined from afar, hoping at the very least that his feelings weren’t so embarrassingly obvious.

They were.

It did not help that he could not seem to string together coherent thoughts or sentences when she was around, much to the amusement of his fellow templars. Or that his overwhelming jealousy towards the mages rumoured to be her lovers seeped into his dealings with them. He saw the knowing looks from the female mages who witnessed his bumbled attempts to greet her in the halls, and so it was only inevitable that Knight-Commander Gregoir called him to his private quarters.

That his crush had come to Gregoir’s attention at all meant it was probably known by all in the tower at that point, as Gregoir was the kind of man who wouldn’t have noticed demonic possession in his tower unless the demon itself was standing before him, waving.

“It can’t go on, Cullen,” the Knight-Commander had sighed, stirring a cup of tea that shone with an ethereal glow of silver-blue. It was how the Commander preferred to take his lyrium, with a touch of milk and sugar. “She’s a lovely young woman, so I understand. But this fixation is not healthy and its interfering in your duties. She is an _apprentice_. The only reason you should be watching her is to look for signs of corruption.”

“I-I understand, sir.”

“She will be undergoing her Harrowing soon and will move up to the second floor if she succeeds. Until that time, I’m assigning you to the third floor.”

Cullen was almost grateful. But the third floor was a dead zone as far as the tower was concerned, home to the senior enchanters who spent most of their time in the lower floors anyway. Occasionally he was privvy to the private meetings between the senior templars and mages, learning for more about the gossip that rarely filtered down to the lower floors. Evidence of blood magic had been found in the library, and the wards protecting the phylacteries had been tampered with, and the senior templars suspected an apprentice named Jowan. It figured. Cullen knew of Jowan and his incompetence was such that it had already been suggested a few times by the hard-liners that he should be made Tranquil for his own good. Cullen wasn’t sure he agreed with such extreme preventative treatment, but it wouldn’t surprise him if Jowan failed his Harrowing and would need executing anyway. Was it better to die, possessed by a demon? Or was it better to live the rest of your life as an emotionless drone?

Cullen filled his days with drills and patrolling and did his best not to think of Surana. He was doing quite well, until the day of her Harrowing approached and Gregoir sent down a request for an Executioner; the templar who would take the life of the apprentice who failed their Harrowing.

Knight-Captain Tyler had been the one to choose who would be sent up. A bitter man full of small cruelties, he had often wasted few opportunities to needle Cullen about his softness for mages and one apprentice in particular. Nothing had delighted him less than nominating Cullen to be the one to kill Surana.

It had been the worst night of his life and what felt like the longest. In the centre of the Harrowing Chamber he had stood over the slumped, dreaming form of the woman he loved, and asked himself over and over… _can I kill her?_ The hand that had held the bastard sword had quaked, and sweat had tracked down his brow. Any time Surana twitched or murmured in her sleep, his stomach was gripped with panic in case it was the first sign of possession.

He would have done it. He would have swung the sword and severed her head if he had needed to, but it had taken him most of the night to rationalise. And just as the morning light touched the top of the tower and seeped into the chamber, Surana finally roused-

And almost at once fell back into an even deeper slumber.

Cullen, not knowing what this meant, had looked to the First Enchanter for help. “She succeeded,” the old man croaked, unsurprised in the least. “But the Harrowing is an exhausting ordeal, and ironically she now needs her sleep. Please return her to her quarters, Ser Cullen.”

It was the first time he had touched her. He tried not to think about the soft, soapy smell of her hair, or the way her small, lithe body felt in his arms. He carried her through the halls and down the spiralling stairs to her dormitory where he laid her upon her bunk as gently as possible. When a lock of hair had fallen across her cheek, Cullen had been unable to resist tucking it back into place.

He withdrew quickly, wishing his heart did not have to pound so hard.

 

* * *

 

 

“Commander.”

So she had found him. Someone was bound to eventually, but he was surprised it was her. He turned stiffly aware from the yawning chasm, where half of the lower dungeon had once stood before it had crumbled away. Icy wind blasted around the broken chamber, snatching at his clothes and biting at his face.

He was standing far too close to the edge.

“I’ve been looking for you,” the Inquisitor said. She stopped some distance behind him. When she looked down at where the cobbled floor ended and the icy void began, he thought he saw her shudder and force her gaze up to him instead. The Inquisitor did not have a head for heights it seemed.

“I apologise,” he said, his voice sounding rough in his own throat. “It was not my intention to hide, I was just…” Cullen blew out a defeated sigh, “hiding.”

“I would be lying if I said I did not do the same from time to time, myself,” she replied quietly. “There is a dusty little library somewhere below the main hall that I think only me and a few rats know about. I usually go there when everything seems to get a little too much. There’s less danger of plummeting to my death there too.”

“I will bear that in mind.” It was reassuring the know the woman who never ran away had her own little hiding places too.

The Inquisitor took a tentative step towards him. “Those mages were from Kinloch Hold. The same circle as you?” she ventured carefully. “You knew them?”

“I honestly do not recall…”

“Perhaps they are mistaken?”

“No. No, I doubt that. They know me. Perhaps better than anyone here knows me.”

Another little step towards the edge. “You are no monster, Cullen…”

He liked it when she used his name. A little too much. “Inquisitor, there is much you do not know about me.”

“I know that you have always treated me with kindness and respect, even though I am a mage. That you have never given me reason to doubt you. Do you think the scar on your face is the only one I can see you have? I don’t know who those mages knew once, but you are not that man.”

She was close enough now to stand alongside him. Another vicious gust of wind sent her staggering slightly into him, and Cullen at once grabbed her about the waist and pulled them both back towards the dungeon’s door. “Maker’s breath, you weigh hardly more than a feather! You shouldn’t stand so close - the wind will carry you right over the edge.”

Despite her bravery, the Inquisitor looked rather relieved at the renewed distance between them and the vanished floor. “ _Fenedhis_! I thought you were going to jump,” she whispered, pressing a hand to her chest.

“Why would I do that?” he demanded.

“People have submitted to the Call of the Void for less,” she retorted with dignity. “Though I am glad to see my concern was unnecessary.”

The Inquisitor averted her gaze from his, her cheeks a little pink. He was going to mark that down to being flustered about heights, when he realised his hand was still resting on her hip with a familiarity it had not earned.

Cullen quickly let go. “I apologise if I gave you any cause for concern,” he told her. “I’m sure you have more important matters to attend to and I have probably taken too much of your time up today already. My own schedule is too full to allow me to tarry much longer.”

“Good. Let us _both_ leave this place then.”

She was going to refuse to leave him alone next to massive hole in the floor no matter what reassurances he have her, so Cullen shrugged and followed her back into the main dungeon and up the narrow stairs to the courtyard.

“Josephine did her best, but I’m afraid working with those mages is out of the question now. It is unfortunate, but we explained to them that mages are a copper a dozen, whereas there is only one Commander who can lead the Inquisition’s armies and we would be lost without him.”

Something softened in Cullen’s chest. “Did you really?” he asked, touched.

“Josephine may have put it more diplomatically than that, but that was the spirit of it, yes. It also happens to be true.”

They stepped out into the cold blue daylight of the afternoon and turned to one another. The Inquisitor offered him a quiet smile. “I would like for you to tell me what happened in the Fereldan circle that caused those mages to react like that, and caused you so much pain. Only when you are ready, though.”

Cullen felt his stomach turn to stone. “You are the Inquisitor,” he said heavily, “it is your right to know your advisers and any potential weaknesses that may leave you exposed as you were today. I should have kept you informed.”

Her hand closed over his arm. “I am not asking as an Inquisitor. Am I not also your friend?”

The problem was, when she peered up at him through those long lashes and her touch was as gentle as a caress, he did not wish to be merely a ‘friend’. But he had done this dance years ago. He had already been burned and ruined by the lack of control he had over matters of the heart.

“Insofar as a mage and a templar can be friends, I will be yours.”

Lavellan’s face was almost unreadable, but he detected her confusion as she slowly withdrew her hand and stepped gracefully back. “Then I will no doubt speak to you later, Commander.”

Back on formal terms, she nodded stiffly and left him to his thoughts.

**  
  
  
  
  
**


	3. Corruption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dorian has a near miss.

**Corruption**

Surana had exited the tower in no less dramatic a fashion as she deserved. A blood mage plot revealed, a scandalous affair with a chantry initiate exposed, an apostate escaped, and to top it all a Grey Warden had conscripted her - one of the few ways a mage could legally leave the circle - and so now she was free.

Cullen knew it was for the best. Out of sight, out of mind, or so he hoped. He still found himself thinking of her during the day, wondering if she was enjoying her newfound freedom and accumulating followers and admirers as easily as she had in the circle.

There was to be a battle at Ostagar. The darkspawn had amassed again, as they sometimes did when their numbers had not been checked in a few years. Some were whispering about a new blight, but Cullen found that hard to believe. It had been so long since there had been a blight in Thedas, and that one would begin in Fereldan was almost unthinkable. The King’s army would almost certainly crush a disorganised horde of darkspawn and that would be the end of the matter. Even so, he worried… for as a newly minted Grey Warden, Surana was sure to be in the thick of things. And what did she know of combat?

But she had not been the only conscription from the tower. Several senior enchanters and mages had been summoned to support the king’s army, as well as a few templars - ostensibly to fight, but mostly to keep an eye on the mages outside the tower. Uldred had gone too, as a representative of the college of magi.

Cullen did not care for Uldred. He was the foremost Libertarian in the tower, and aggressive about his beliefs in mage emancipation. Cullen thought he might have some good points - after all, being shut in a tower for an accident of birth seemed unfair. The mages behaved well enough, so what was the harm in granting them a little more freedom? Except Uldred made such an obnoxious case for greater leniency it was difficult to sympathise.

If there was ever an opportunity to make trouble for the templars, Uldred would seize it. Curfews were imposed on all apprentices as a matter of course, but if one of Uldred’s apprentices was politely asked to return to their dormitory along with everyone as, the bald coot would come flying out the wings to scream about oppression and dunder-headed jobsworth templars who had more muscle than brain.

Uldred’s other habit was to request high security items from the stock room without the correct requisition forms or the necessary co-signatures. When he was inevitably turned down by the Tranquil in charge of the stocks, he would throw a tantrum, which in turn would force the templars to intervene. Tranquil made excellent keepers of the stock as they were staunch followers of rules and guidelines and saw everything in black and white, but they were quite useless in actually defending themselves. Cullen had stepped in more than once when he thought it looked like the senior enchanter was ready to either strike or use magic on the poor Tranquil calmly refusing to understand Uldred’s threats.

Of course, Uldred had never pushed it far enough that the templars would ever have cause to restrain him. He knew where the line was and he toed it with abandon. There was not a templar in the tower who did not find him infuriating. Gregoir had even once suggested to Irving that Uldred be demoted and placed under tighter restrictions, but Irving had pointed out that Uldred’s following was powerful. If they ever made a martyr out of the histrionic, beady-eyed bully, they would have nothing short of a rebellion on their hands. After all, what Uldred screamed at them were merely thoughts and opinions that many mages in the tower possessed; he was just the loudest.

So it seemed like a cosmic joke - a ludicrous farce - that after the battle of Ostagar, only Uldred returned.

The others were dead, he had told them. All of them. The King had fallen, the conscripted mages had been slaughtered and the templars had died defending them. The darkspawn had emerged as an unstoppable force and was marching north unopposed. The grey wardens were no more.

Surana had died.

As the tower descended into panic and hysteria, Cullen was numbed to it. Emergency meetings were called, but nothing could be decided. The Aequitarians wanted to evacuate the tower and remove to one of the Orlesian circles. The Templars argued this was unfeasible, as the number of mages was too great to be safely escorted across the country without risking runaways and attack from bandits and other forces.

The Libertarians, louder and more aggressive than ever, saw the fall of the King and his army and the rise of the Darkspawn as the final straw. If the templars continued to cage them, they argued, they would all die. They needed to be granted their freedom and go where they were needed - to help, to fight, to hide - to do anything but sit in the tower and wait to die.

No one could agree. The arguing looked like it was going to continue right up until the Darkspawn knocked on the front gates.

The night when it had all changed had started the same as any other. Tensions still ran high and there had been several attempts at escape by some of the younger mages. Patrols on the first floor had increased and the nightly curfew had been extended. All mages were now restricted to their dormitories after their evening meal, and any found wandering the halls were manhandled back to the bunks if necessary. It was deathly quiet in the halls, save for the clinking of templar armour as they conducted their patrols.

Cullen had been assigned with a dozen others to stand guard over the phylacteries - escapee mages who had a lick of sense would always try to destroy their phylactery before fleeing. He’d had the misfortune to be grouped with Knight Captain Tyler.

“Why so glum, Ser Cullen?” Tyler had sneered as he’d paced back and forth before the door to the cellars. “Still pining after that knife-ear?”

Cullen did not respond. He never responded.

“Probably just sulking you never stuck it in her while you had the chance,” Tyler snorted at his own crude joke. “She’s just Darkspawn food now, friend.”

“As are we,” Cullen ground out, “If our betters don’t come to an agreement soon.”

“Oh, we’re in no danger of that,” Tyler laughed darkly, although Cullen wasn’t sure if he thought they would never be darkspawn food or the tower leaders would never agree in time.

A dull thud rolled through the tower then. Thunder? It was barely audible, but Cullen looked up at the high vaulted ceiling as Tyler turned his bullying on one of the younger templars. Another fractured boom shook the floor almost imperceptibly. Forgetting that he had been told not to leave his post under any circumstances, Cullen moved away from the cellar door and wandered towards the foot of the grand spiral staircase that led up to the next floor. He looked up into absolute darkness.

“Cullen, get back here,” Tyler ordered lazily.

Another boom. The air stirred, and Cullen’s hair stood on end. A distant, thin noise rose above the sound of the rain outside, but he could not make it out.

Then somewhere above him a door slammed open and someone was running.

_“Demons! Demons in the tower!”_

Cullen’s hand went to his sword as an apprentice came hurtling down the stairs towards him. The boy was moving so fast he had no time to stop - he slammed into Cullen and clung to him desperately. “Help them - oh maker please help! They’re dying!”

Something was terribly wrong in the tower the day a mage ran into the arms of a templar. The other templars behind him had drawn their swords. Tyler was already barking orders.

“Seal the main doors - let no one in or out! Ennis! Rouse the others - gather them here! Find the Knight-Commander!”

The boy slipped from Cullen’s arms to crouch on the floor, cowering. “Please help them, please, please…”

“Stay here.” Cullen ordered, before taking off up the stairs. He ignored Tyler’s shouts to stop.

Most of the templars would be on the third floor. He had to reach them and alert them. A demon incursion could be contained, but speed was of the essence. He reached the first floor where most of the apprentices slept, and found that although the dorms were supposed to be heavily guarded, there wasn’t a templar in sight. Apprentices hovered in doorways in their nightwear, looking about in confusion.

“What is going on?” one demanded as they spotted Cullen hurtling past.

“Stay in your rooms!” Cullen shouted to them. “Bar your doors - let no one in!”

They seemed disinclined to obey… until the screaming began. It echoed through the outer passageway and rebounded off walls. It was coming from above them.

Some apprentices gave quavering cries in response and retreated. Cullen hoisted his shield into position and charged on, taking a shortcut through the library to reach the stairs for the second floor.

The stink of blood and offal hit him in a dizzying wave as he climbed. In the dark he stumbled over something soft. His knee hit the stone step and came away wet. He froze, too terrified to trust his senses.

He reached out with a shaking hand to touch the thing that had tripped him. He felt cloth… gair, flesh… a wet, bony hand, as cold as the stone beneath him. He forced himself onward and stepped on another.

_Dear Maker,_ he had thought. _There were piles of them._ There was a light ahead and he stumbled toward it with single-minded purpose, trying to ignore the crunch of the bones he stepped on and the hair that clung to his armoured boots.

How could this have happened? Where were the templars who were supposed to be guarding them?

The light neared, and Cullen ascended into hell.

The bodies of mages littered the floor, grouping densely near the top of the stairs. It was as if they had all been running to escape when they had been struck down. Torchlight flickered in pools of blood and the only movement was the quivering of one mage who still clung to life.

Cullen ran to her. He tried to help her sit up, but the movement sent rivulets of blood pouring from a puncture in her stomach and she groaned weakly.

“What happened?” he whispered, trying as best he could to staunch the wound.

The mage just shook her head. “Help me...” Her voice cracked and wavered. But her eyes were already dulling and her breaths were growing shallow.

In seconds she was gone and just as still as any other corpse lining the corridor.

Cullen pressed a trembling hand to his mouth and then froze - the hand was coated in blood. He could taste the metallic tang on his lips. It was still warm.

He hunched over and wretched. In the aftermath he knelt, gasping for breath. Why could he not stand? How could this be real?

“Oh, did I miss one?” a woman’s voice purred from behind him.

Cullen’s head shot up.

A desire demon was picking her way between the corpses towards him. Never in his life had Cullen ever seen a real demon - only as illustrations in books. Desire demons had always struck him as the least intimidating, and yet now that one was standing before him… nothing struck him as so abhorrent and dangerous. Pictures did the real thing no justice. They did not capture the way the demon moved, sliding as if she walked on air with proud horns that jutted like antlers. The demon was phenomenally tall, clawed and scaled, with a tail that whipped behind her like a scorpion’s sting. She was a parody of the feminine form, transforming gentleness and softness into terrifying

She looked down at the bodies that surrounded them. “I had to do it,” she said, a throb of contrived sadness in her voice. “They were going to escape and ruin everything. Isn’t it dreadful?”

Cullen could only stare. He willed himself to move but couldn’t.

“Why don’t don’t you come with me, boy?” the desire demon lifted a graceful hand towards him. “I’ll take you to the others if you like. Isn’t that why you came up here? Such a brave boy. Gregoir is sure to reward you.”

“Stay away from me, demon,” he whispered, finally finding the strength to rise and pull his sword up.

She tittered and whipped her tail in excitement. “You don’t have to be afraid, my boy. The chantry has misinformed you. Not _all_ demons are bad. I can help you, if you let me.”

“I would rather die than bargain with a demon!”

“Oh, dear boy, but I could give you the world so long as you were willing to pay the price - a demon always abides by a deal, you know.” She cocked her head, black eyes staring right through the fabric of his being. “But you don’t want the world, do you? Just one thing. One soul. She is lost to you now, but I could find her for you. It is a simple thing to fetch one small soul from the fade… why, it would hardly cost you anything at all.”

No, he didn’t dare hope.

Before he could respond, a feral scream rent the air and a templar shield smashed into the side of the demon, sending her staggering - the illusion of her ethereal grace shattered. But the moment did not last long, and the demon twirled, laughing, and disappeared between one heartbeat and the next. Fading like a terrible dream.

But the nightmare around him remained.

His saviour came in the stocky form of Knight Captain Maria. The tall woman had gore smeared across her face and most of her uniform below the knees was soaked in blood. “Cullen,” she stared down at him in surprise. “You were on the ground floor tonight, weren’t you? Maker, how far has this spread?”

“We heard screaming, so I came to find the other templars. The apprentices are unguarded, but I think they’re safe for now.”

“Then we can contain this - help me!” She took him firmly by the elbow, perhaps understanding that he was not all that steady on his feet right then. She guided him back to the top of the stairs leading to the lower floor. “We have to seal this entry. If this corruption spreads any further, the tower will fall. The templars are trapped on the fourth floor and fighting for their lives. I managed to break through with Bryant, but...” She looked over her shoulder with a glassy look. “He didn’t make it past the laboratories.”

She handed him a glyph and kept one for herself. “Place it against the wall like this,” she showed him how to activate it. Between the two glyphs sprang a shimmering barrier that spread to block the passage. “Not even demons can break through this,” she told him. “Only you and I can deactivate this now.”

“Maria, what is going on?” Too much was happening, too fast for him to take in.

“It’s the mages,” she ground out. “They’re using blood magic - they’ve summoned demons and abominations and god knows what else. Something’s happening in the Harrowing chamber - me and Bryant saw demons dragging people up there - but its too heavily guarded.”

“Where’s Gregoir?” he asked.

“Not with us. We thought he must be below with you.”

“And Irving?”

Maria swallowed. “Irving was one of the people we saw being dragged into the Harrowing chamber…”

If even the First Enchanter had been overwhelmed, this was bad. Cullen took a moment to process this before coming to a decision. “Then all we can do is look for survivors and try to get as many out as possible.”

“No,” Maria adamantly shook her head. “This floor is already lost. Anyone left alive is either corrupted or will be soon. There is nothing to save - we have to purge.”

“If we can save even one life, isn’t that worth it?!”

“Not if attempting to do so risks letting a possessed mage escape,” she said shortly, inviting him to look around with a sweep of her hand. “Do you want this to happen to the apprentices too? Maker, it may already be too late!”

Cullen was close to losing his temper. “Then what do we do?” he cried. “Just kill everything that moves? Our job is to protect the mages - we have to adhere to that, whatever it costs us! Especially when we are tested like this!”

“Naive fool…” Maria clenched her jaw and hoisted her shield back into place. “I’m going to rejoin the others. You can come with me, or you can save your bleeding little mages, whatever good it does you or them.”

She could have ordered him to follow her, she certainly outranked him, but it appeared that the situation had spiralled so far out of control that the chain of command had been obliterated. So when Maria turned and jogged back down the passage, Cullen let her go and set about searching the mage dormitories.

As he dreaded, all he found were bodies with eerily familiar faces. He had seen these people yesterday, walking around and going about their lives. Now they were here… but everything that had made them people was now gone, and they were just dead flesh scattered across the floor. He called out, but no one replied. He moved on.

Everywhere he went he found nothing but death and blood. There was too much of it. How had this happened so quickly and so quietly? Had this been happening while he’d just been milling about the entrance hall with Ser Tyler and the others, enduring petty bullying. Had the mages been dying and the templars fighting for their very survival while he had been wishing he was asleep in bed?

A noise from within one of the lecture halls he passed made him stop. Cullen peered through the doorway and looked about, but saw no one.

Demons didn’t hide…

“Hello?” he called softly. “If anyone’s there, come out.”

He heard a whimper and glimpsed what might have been a foot scrambling to be tucked out of sight beneath a lectern. When he went over and crouched to look beneath it, two wide, wet eyes peered back.

“Oh, thank the Maker,” the young mage whispered. “I thought you were one of them.”

“Who?” He took her arm gently and pulled her to her feet.

“Uldred’s people.” She glanced nervously at the door. “I was just in bed, then I heard the screaming… we were all running - they were shouting about demons. I saw them! I saw the demons, but there were mages with them - Hannah, Merin, Davith - I knew they were arses but this….”

“They did this?” he asked her.

“They’re Uldred’s cronies.” She ran her hands through her hair, looking as if she wanted to tear it out. “Maker, we all heard him yesterday. He said there would be a reckoning… that we would be forced to act… so he does this?”

“Can you fight?”

“We’re not allowed to use our magic to fight-”

“I’ll overlook it tonight,” he said quickly. There was a body slumped over one of the benches nearby, a staff still clutched in its hand. Cullen freed it and handed it to the mage. “You need to be able to defend yourself.”

“Don’t leave me!” she pleaded.

“Of course not, but we have to find other survivors and there are demons loose.”

“I-I saw people running for the labs. Perhaps some are there?”

“Good. Stay behind me and watch my back.”

She fell into step - a little too close, as she kept treading on his heels. She needed to relax, which was difficult to persuade her to do when he himself felt like his nerves were a jangling bag of broken crockery. “Your name is… Mefina?”

“Melthina,” she corrected.

“Apprenticed to Amara?”

“Yes,” she agreed haltingly. “But, Amara’s dead. She-”

Melthina couldn’t continue, understandably, so Cullen didn’t push it. He guided them quietly through the network of corridors, taking the narrower, less open route wherever possible, until the laboratories were just ahead. He heard a keening cry and stopped short. Melthia bumped into from behind, and he held a finger to his lips, urging her to be quiet.

There were voices up ahead. Sick, cackling laughter, and someone begging and sobbing.

“This is even more enjoyable than I thought it would be - DO stop snivelling Cavanus!”

Melthina tugged on Cullen’s armour. _Rothwell_ , she mouthed at him, and he nodded in agreement. There was no mistaking the autocratic baritone and Nevarran accent of senior enchanter Rothwell. Another of Uldred’s most faithful supporters.

Cullen crept forward until he could see down the next passage. He saw Rothwell, but tensed to also see the mage accompanied by a lumbering abomination - a tumorous bastardisation of a human, erupted from what looked like templar armour.

Templar abominations? Was that even possible? He had thought only mages susceptible to possession…

Rothwell’s back was turned to Cullen. He was too busy taunting another mage he had corner against the far wall, holding the head of his staff to the other man’s chest and releasing just enough electrical energy to make him scream, but not kill him. Cavanus, was it? Rothwell had always bullied him, and coveted his successes.

White hot anger curled in Cullen’s stomach. He clenched his hand tightly around his sword and emerged from cover. It was two against one, but Rothwell was not a powerful mage, and right then Cullen’s blood sang with adrenalin induced confidence. “Stop this now, Rothwell!” he called, advancing on the mage.

Rothwell turned, but didn’t seem all that surprised. “A noble templar, is it?” he laughed. “Why aren’t you with the rest of your kind upstairs, being exterminated like the savage mad dogs you are?”

“Release Cavanus!” he barked, lifting his shield into place and preparing to release the incantation that would neutralise a mage. He had never used it against a real mage before, but he was enraged enough right then to know he could send this weasel flying through the wall and off the battlements if he wanted.

“Cavanus is mine,” sang Rothwell. “The mages are mine. Even Bryant’s mine, aren’t you Bryant?”

The abomination gurgled and swung to face Cullen. “Knight-Lieutenant Bryant…”

“You’re mine too, you just don’t know it yet,” Rothwell continued.

He lifted his staff towards Cullen-

Cullen unleashed the incantation, ripping the magic from the mage. Rothwell gave a cry and sank to his knees - but the abomination remained unaffected and charged at Cullen with an inhuman hiss.

“Bryant!” he shouted, hoping his fellow templar could still hear sense, but the creature bearing down on him was not even human anymore. There was nothing of Bryant left except some pieces of armour that had not quite fallen away yet. Grimacing, Cullen lifted his shield and deflected the weight of the monstrous body slamming into his own. His sword flashed out, running a deep line down the monsters side… but no blood or guts spilled. Bryant’s husk just staggered around and prepared to attack again. Cullen’s shield slammed into the creature again. He forced it against the wall and pinned it, using all his strength and the force of his anger to hold it there as he hacked at it.

_It’s not Bryant, it’s not him,_ he told himself, as the abomination hissed and raged and raked its claws down the side of his head. Cullen felt blood leak down his neck. They had told him to keep his distance from the mages, so that he could do what needed to be done should they be corrupted. They had not warned him that he needed to do the same with his templar brothers.

But as he was occupied with the abomination, Rothwell was beginning to find his feet again. “Melthina!” Cullen shouted. “Stop Rothwell - he’s weakened!”

Melthina had hung back so far, but now she lifted her staff and fired a spell -

Hitting Cullen square in the ribs and sending him sprawling. Lights burst behind his eyes and for a long time it felt like he couldn’t breathe.

“Good girl, Melthina,” he heard Rothwell laughing. “Were there any others?”

“Another female templar,” Melthina replied. “I can find her, but she won’t be as easy to fool.”

“Then let the demons deal with her.”

Cullen opened his eyes and blearily tried to focus on the face peering down at him. Rothwell was grinning down at him… but though it looked and sounded like the senior enchanter, Cullen had a strong feeling some other being looked down at him from behind those familiar eyes. “That should have put you out like a light,” the mage said. “Templar resistance to magic is something to behold, isn’t it? But no matter. Not even templars can resist indefinitely.”

The tip of Rothwell’s staff touched Cullen’s forehead.

He knew no more after that.

 

* * *

 

It was with a jaunty whistle that the mage Dorian climbed the steps to the tower of the Inquisition’s military commander. As he neared the door he heard thumps within. Was the dear commander finally having his roof fixed? It was about time really.

Without knocking, he swung the door open and leaned in. “Thought you might like a spot of-”

“Get out!”

“Thought not, well, perhaps anothertimegoodbye.” Dorian quickly pulled the door shut, just in time for half the contents of Cullen’s desk to slam into it.

Cullen paused only long enough to drag a frustrated hand over his face before he tore another drawer from the desk and scattered the contents across the floor. “Where is it?!” he raged, to no one in particular.

He’d turned out every single book from his shelves and emptied every chest. His office lay in tatters, and the infernal roaring in his ears just would not stop. With a wordless shout of anger he picked up a brass lion statuette - a gift from Josephine after they had first arrived in Skyhold - to replace the one she had given him months ago when welcoming him into the newborn Inquisition. He slammed the statuette into the desk, again and again, until the toughened oak panels began to cave and splinter. With a final slam the brass lion broke apart.

The thirst was unbearable. He clawed at his own throat, but he wanted to claw deeper - to reach into his own head and rip out the noise and the pain and the memories that burned as if they were fresh. He gasped, choking on a sob of frustration as he crumpled behind the desk and lay his forehead against the cold ground and wrapped his hands behind neck.

Images flashed behind his eyelids, chasing each other, spinning his head in circles. “Stop,” he whispered, beseeching the dark shadows of his mind. “Please, stop.”

_You don’t want me to stop,_ a beautiful voice whispered back, belonging to a face from a long-dead past. _For years you wanted me, why do you hesitate now? Come to me._

Cullen groaned and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. He began to pray. “Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light.”

_My body craves yours. And I see how you crave mine..._

“I shall weather the storm,” he whispered. “I shall endure.”

_Do not deny yourself. Take all you want from me, I am yours and yours alone._

“I shall endure.”

But the face from his past blurred and recomposed itself. It was no longer the brightly burning Surana who beckoned to him into temptation, but the cool regard of the Inquisitor reaching out to him with hooded eyes.

_Make me whole,_ her melodic voice pleaded to him.

“Maker, no….” He pushed himself to his feet and slammed out of his office. It was too much to bear. He could barely see through the fog of pain and memories, but he kept going in what he hoped was the direction of the office of requisitions. He thought he might have heard Varric called a greeting, calling him ‘Curly’, but in no state to converse, Cullen ignored him.

Agent Morris was warming his hands against the fire when Cullen burst into his office. Seeing the commander’s thunderous expression, he immediately hurried to look busy. “Wh-what can I do for you, Com-”

“A unit of lyrium.” Cullen demanded, shame and disgust making his voice thick. “Now.”

“Of course, sir,” Morris began to move, as if to obey, before suddenly coming to a halt. “Ah, I would need the correct requisition forms signed by Seeker Pentaghast, of course.”

Cullen fixed him with a look that could have murdered. “What.”

“A requisition form-”

“Since when does the commander of the Inquisition’s forces have to sign a damn piece of paper like a fresh recruit?!”

Morris winced. “Since Seeker Pentaghast ordered me not to dispense any lyrium to you… um, that is, _just_ you, sir.”

Cullen’s hand spasmed against his side. A side-effect of withdrawal or the desire to grab Morris by the neck and repeat his question, he wasn’t sure. “And her orders weigh more than mine?”

“In templar matters, I assumed-”

Cullen didn’t wait for him to finish. Why was he standing here arguing with the man just trying to do his job when the real culprit was next door. He abandoned Morris to his stuttered excuses and slammed his way into the adjoining blacksmiths where Cassandra was inspecting the latest batch of blades.

“You have no right!” he began furiously, jabbing a finger at the Seeker, who glanced up at him with a tilted eyebrow.

“You will have to be more specific, Commander,” was her droll reply.

“When I gave you permission to judge my fitness for duty that did _not_ include interfering with my lyrium supply!” He was too narrowed with his rage upon the Seeker to notice how the blacksmith put down her hammer and ushered herself and her apprentice from the room. “You have no right to do that!”

“I am a seeker, you are a templar,” she said, running a finger down an untempered blade. “I have every right.”

“I am no templar!”

“Then you have no need for lyrium,” she said with a shrug.

The woman was infuriating. “Do not make light of this-”

“I blocked your supply for exactly this reason: so that you would have to come to me if ever you found yourself relapsing.” She turned to him, folded arms, her face hardening. He knew she was not incapable of sympathy, but she had none for him now. “You have been free of your dependence for so long. Why give in now?”

“You have no idea what I am going through-”

“Fevers, nausea, headaches, hallucinations, emotional instability,” she rattled off the list. “Yes, I see that perfectly well. But you have suffered these things before. Unless your life is in danger, I do not see the reason why I should release your supply. _Is_ your life in danger, Cullen?”

Just arguing was almost too exhausting. He leaned a hand against the blacksmith’s anvil for support as he tried to hold onto the anger that was threatening to slip away with fatigue. “I cannot serve like this,” he ground out, glaring at her. “I feel like… I feel like I am back there.”

Cassandra narrowed her eyes curiously. “Back where? Kirkwall?”

His laugh was devoid of any humour. “Kirkwall was a paradise compared to the place that haunts me now.” A tremor radiated up his arm and he had to straighten lest Cassandra notice. “Release my supply or find a replacement for me.”

The Seeker looked away from him. “We agreed it would be my call, not yours. I have no desire to release you from your duties.”

“Do you think you do me a favour?” he demanded. “Surely the Inquisition is more important-”

“Exactly,” she interrupted. “How would it look to replace you now? Or for our noble commander to be vulnerable to addiction? For the sake of the inquisition, you need to get yourself under control.”

“Do I look like I have myself under control to you?” he hissed.

She looked him over, observing the uncontrollable tremors in his hands, the sweat standing out on his pallid face and the bruised marks beneath eyes that shone too bright, as if even his mind was afflicted by fever. “You will do,” she said simply. As she had said every other time he had asked for her evaluation.

“I do not accept that.”

“You asked for my opinion, and I’ve given it. Why would you expect it to change?”

“I expect you to keep your word. It’s relentless. I can’t-”

“You give yourself too little credit,” she replied dismissively.

“If I’m unable to fulfil what vows I’ve kept, then nothing good has come of this. Would you rather save face than admit-”

The door creaked. He looked over in irritation, expecting the blacksmith had returned, but when he saw the Inquisitor step into the room with a faint frown, he found his anger extinguished as if by a sudden gust of wind. All that was left in its place was shame and fear.

He did not ever want her to see him like this.

She came forward as if to speak to him, but Cullen slid past her. He couldn’t bear her pity right now. “Forgive me,” he said, apologising for leaving, apologising for having her witness his mad pleading, and for all the pain and disappointment that would soon follow.

“And people say _I’m_ stubborn,” Cassandra sneered at his retreating back. “This is ridiculous.”

He slammed the door on whatever else she might have to say for him. He paused outside, rubbing his temples. The Inquisitor’s arrival and scattered his thoughts to the wind. When he looked about the courtyard, the colours were not quite right. Too red. Too blue. More irritating was that his sword hand would not stop shaking.

_Pathetic_ , he thought, jamming the hand inside his coat. _A commander who can’t even hold a weapon._

He made his way slowly back to his tower, and for once it seemed like no one accosted him with reports, or requests for reports, or questions or requests. He passed the tavern and saw Rylen standing beneath the tavern’s signboard. He looked like he was trying to flirt with Scout Harding.

Cullen made his way over and coughed quite deliberately. “Ser Rylen.”

The former templar spun around, more surprised than guilty. “Can I help you, Commander?”

“I’ve been caught short on my lyrium supply,” he said, not looking the other man in the eye. “Would you be willing to spare me one of your units?”

“Of course, Commander. But I thought…” Whatever he had thought remained unsaid. One good bloodshot glare from Cullen saw to that. “Of course,” he repeated. “I’ll have one sent up. Immediately.”

“I would appreciate it, thank you.”

As Cullen made his way back to the tower, he noticed the tremors had already stopped.

 

  
  



	4. Endurance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Inquisitor is not cold. Really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! Here's a timely christmas present for you guys!

**Endurance**

  
  


According to Gregoir, Cullen had been trapped inside the tower for three weeks. Unbeknownst to the survivors barricaded safely on the ground floor, all of that time had been spent within the Harrowing Chamber’s anteroom, trapped within a magical barrier of Uldred’s doing, so strong not even the combined might of Cullen and the other templars could break it. He had awoken there after Melthina’s betrayal and found himself in the company of a dozen other templars and a further handful of mages - the only remaining survivors.

Anger and indignation had spurred their creativity at first, as they’d put their heads together to formulate plans of escape. They’d tried tricks, distractions, focused spells and magic normally considered too dangerous to attempt.

Nothing worked.

And one by one, they were removed for slaughter. At first it was the abominations who did the dirty work, who passed through the barrier as if it was vapour, and selected someone to ‘reap’. They fought. All of them. They always fought. With no weapons they had used their bare hands, clawing and punching and biting and kicking.

It had never worked. As each man or woman was dragged away into the Harrowing Chamber, they were helpless to watch, and helpless to hear the screams that would follow. The screaming could go on for hours. When it finally stopped, it was almost a relief...

And each day, there was yet another abomination within the ranks of their jailers.

The others stopped fighting soon enough. When the abominations came, they sat and prayed it would be someone else, and did nothing for the unlucky sod who ended up in the grip of the abominations.

Cullen had refused to give up. Each time they came for someone, he threw himself upon them like an animal… half hoping that doing so meant they would take him instead. But for whatever reason, they had always passed him over. And one by one he’d seen his comrades dragged away - some crying, some screaming abuse, some simply too far gone to care, who walked into the chamber under their own power without a word of protest.

When it was finally just Cullen and the mages who remained, the mages had grown dangerously desperate.

They knew of only one other way to win their freedom.

“Don’t do it,” Cullen had rasped to them from his corner of their cell. “You mustn’t.”

“They’ve left us no choice!” the ringleader had hissed.

They’d opened their veins and used blood magic.

Almost immediately they lost control. The problem with offering even a small part of yourself up to a demon in exchange for power was that demons would take the rest of you too without hesitation, and a weak mind was no challenge to overwhelm.

Their bodies convulsed and tore and became abominations in seconds. The few mages who hadn’t turned were ripped to shreds just as quickly. When their screams faded only Cullen’s uncontrollable laughter remained.

He laughed and laughed until he ran out of breath and rolled over in an attempt to catch his breath. When he looked up and saw himself surrounded by the abominations created by the mages, he burst into laughter all over again. He opened up his arms to them, ready to be torn asunder too.

“Come along, my children,” called a husky voice.

Outside the barrier stood a desire demon - almost certainly the same one he had failed to kill before - beckoning to the abominations. They followed her command like drones, no trace of the mages they had been left in their twisted, grotesque forms now. The desire demon caressed them as if they were indeed her beautiful children. “You’re not to kill that one,” she said, looking down at Cullen. “We have use for him yet.”

Alone in his cell, Cullen had waited for them to come and take him away as they had done the others. It was only a matter of time. With no windows it was impossible to tell the passage of time. Was it hours or days? When would they come for him?

The only company were the infrequent visits of the desire demon who liked to stroll along the edge of the barrier. Mostly she just liked to look. Sometimes she spoke.

“The desires of mankind always keep me entertained,” she confided in him. “How often the lowly peasant desires fewer children to feed… and how often Kings and Emperors desire the opposite. Wealth, power, a new toy. Perhaps just a friend. Perhaps all they want is an answer to a question they’ve been asking their whole life. Mankind has evolved such complicated desires.”

Then she gave him a predatory smile. “But your desires are beautiful in their simplicity. You have the oldest desire of them all, the original, the thought that first brought my kind into being within the Fade. The desire of a man for a woman. The first of the sins.”

“The only woman I ever desired is dead and gone,” he had told her, “All I desire now is death.”

“How boring,” she scolded coquettishly. “But you should know the dead are never gone. All souls return to the Fade. I’ve told you I can bring her to you if that is what you desire.”

“And you would want nothing in return, I’m sure.”

He had retreated to the far side of his cage and wrapped his arms around his head. But the demon’s voice penetrated his mind as if she crouched beside him, whispering in his ear.

“I could bring her to you… bind her to you. She would love you, just as she should have done, and love no other. Her body would be yours to take every night, her only endeavour to please you.”

“Leave me!” he screamed. “Begone!”

She would always disperse when he screamed, but it would only be a matter of time before she returned and resumed her whispered temptations.

Until one day she came to him, looking amused. “A funny thing,” she began. “Name a soul, any soul, and I could pluck it from the Fade as a flower. It is a vast, ever-changing place, but there is nowhere a soul can hide from me. But I have searched and searched and I cannot find this soul you desire.”

A demon’s words could never be trusted, but his curiosity got the better of him. “What does that mean?”

She smiled, sharp teeth flashing at him. “Your love yet remains in this world. She is not dead.”

He didn’t believe. He couldn’t afford to believe her. But still he dared hope…

With no sign that the abominations would come for him and drag him to his death, Cullen felt resigned to his imprisonment, to be slowly taunted by the demon until he died out of sheer spite for her. He had begun to wonder how hard it would be to dash his own head against the wall and end it all, when a lightning bolt shot from the doorway of the anteroom and struck the desire demon in the back.

Cullen could only watch in mute confusion as the demon screamed and convulsed before crumbling to dust - as did the barrier that had contained him for so long.

Was he free?

“Who’s there?” he called, suspicious and afraid something even worse than a demon had come along.

The wind had been knocked clean from his sails to see none other than Surana step from the shadows. “Cullen,” she whispered.

She was thin and dishevelled but still impossibly beautiful. “No, you’re dead,” he shook his head and retreated to the back of his cell. A trick. It had to be a trick.

“Cullen, I am here!” she moved forward and caught his hands in hers. They felt warm and vital. She was no ghostly apparition. “They had me locked in a barrier in the templar quarters.I finally escaped… I came looking for other survivors.”

Of course she had. Only Surana would think of others before saving herself.

“Is there anyone else…?” she asked him.

“No.” He touched her cheek, still not quite daring to believe she was real. Every one of his senses told him otherwise. “They’re all dead.”

Surana swallowed her disappointment. “Then we must go. _Quickly_.”

She took his hand and led him through the corridors secret passageways to the mage quarters. Only once did they meet a troop of abominations. Surana dispatched them easily with her staff. He had always known she was a powerful mage, but to see her in action when he had struggled against even one abomination left him stunned.

Their flight came to an abrupt halt at the staircase leading to the apprentice’s floor. The barrier he had erected with Maria was still in place.

“What is this?” Surana demanded. “My magic cannot touch it.”

“Because it’s the work of templars.”

“Can you undo it?” she asked.

“Only the templars who activated the glyphs can undo it,” he told her.

In the corridor behind them came the telltale gurgle of abominations. Cullen glanced over his shoulder quite calmly. The monsters would be upon them soon.

“We’re dead,” Surana whispered, her beautiful eyes wide and fearful. “Oh, maker, we’re dead.”

Cullen glanced guiltily to the glyphs. “I can undo this one,” he admitted. “It should be enough to bring the barrier down. But to do so would free the demons.”

Surana turned to him, cupping his face. “Cullen, we’re going to die if you don’t undo this barrier. Please. I don’t want to die. I want to live! I did not survive Ostagar to die here! There will be reinforcements below - we do not need to die here!”

“We cannot risk it,” he mumbled.

“Please!” Tears shone in her eyes. “I don’t want to die. Don’t let me die.”

He couldn’t bear to lose her. Not again. He closed his eyes for a moment then turned to place his hand over the glyph he had activated what seemed like a lifetime ago. “I’ll drop the barrier - but only for a moment. You must go through when I do.”

“No - you must come with me!”

“I cannot let those monstrosities escape. Please, Surana… just go.”

The glyph clicked beneath his fingers and the barrier dropped. He looked behind him at the approaching abominations, judging he had just enough time to reactivate the barrier before they reached him and almost certainly killed him. “Surana, now! Go!”

But when he turned back to face her, the desire demon stood in her place, smiling at him.

Too late, he realised his folly. He reached to reactivate the glyph, but the demon seized his arm in her inhumanly strong grip and pulled him away. “Ah-ah,” she chastised him. “You’ve been such a good boy, let’s not spoil it now.”

The abominations flooded past them, piling down the staircase to the floor below as he screamed his horror and regret. Later, he would learn that under Knight-Commander Gregoir’s orders, the apprentices’ floor had been sealed from below. The demons would get no further, but they had all they wanted anyway; the apprentices had been sealed inside for the past week and now had nowhere to run.

 

* * *

 

“It was a bloodbath,” Cullen whispered.

Upon the ramparts, he stared out at the mountains shrouded beneath the shadow of a night’s sky that glowed with constellations and the lingering scar of the sealed breach. He saw none of it. The memories held him fast and he saw it all as if it was happening before his eyes all over again.

“It wasn’t your fault.” The Inquisitor’s quiet voice drew him back to the present. She had perched herself on a crate nearby, listening attentively for a while now. Her patience was endless.

She had come to him in his weakest moment, when he’d had the lyrium right there on his desk, and all he’d had to do was drink it and find relief. But she had stopped him. She had not told him to do what was best for the Inquisition or for herself, she had only cared what he had wanted.

And he’d wanted to be free.

He’d thought lyrium was the answer to that, but they had been standing on the battlements for hours now, just talking (or rather, he had talked and she had listened) and Cullen felt more free than he had in years. The tremors had stopped, the migraine had eased into a tolerable ache, and his heart felt light, even as he spoke of the very things that had haunted him in the darkest hours of the night for most of his life.

“It was my fault. I fell for a demon’s tricks and a hundred young mages were slaughtered and turned into abominations because of it,” he told her quietly. _And here I stand, a free, respected man, while their bones lie in a mass grave at the edge of Lake Calenhad._ “It was my weakness for one woman. That was all it took.”

Lavellan looked down at her hands in her lap. “What was she like?”

“The Hero of Ferelden?” Cullen absently shifted to stand beside the Inquisitor’s crate, leaning his hand upon its edge near her knee. “Most of the stories are true. Although… she wasn’t as tall as they say, and she ate with her mouth open. I think to do the things that she did, she needed to be a force of nature. She drew people to her - had the king eating out of her hand before she put him on the throne. You can imagine what such a person was like within the confines of the circle? Young fool that I was, of course I adored her.”

A gentle smile touched the Inquisitor’s shapely lips. “She must still hold a special place in your heart.”

Cullen didn’t return the smile. “Love can twist to hate very easily. The demon took my obsession with her and used it to hurt me in every way you can imagine. I could not feel love for her once it was over… I could not feel love for anything or anyone for a long time.”

With a sigh he turned his face to catch the cool wind, appreciating its vitality. He could hear the music from the tavern floating across the walls, faint but comfortingly mundane. “I loathed her, in fact. My revulsion for her was only matched by my disgust of mages, and it was years before I came to realise the hatred was for myself. For what I had let happen. Guilt, for not dying with the rest of them. I’ve made peace with it, Inquisitor, and I hope if the Hero of Ferelden met me today she would not recognise me. I was a different man before. The feelings I once held for her - the good and the bad - it is as if they belong to someone else. I realise I never really knew her well enough to truly feel either way.”

“Is it why those mages called you a monster?” The Inquisitor asked delicately. “Because the demons killed the apprentices?”

There was a long pause before Cullen answered. “No,” he said flatly. “No one knows what I did save for the Revered Mother in Greenfell… and you, I suppose. It’s not something I have ever dared to share. After the tower was reclaimed, I resumed my duties. But… I was not well. They never should have permitted me guardianship over the remaining mages. I was not kind. I jumped at shadows, I saw evidence of blood magic everywhere, I put them in solitary confinement for whispering to each other in corners. I beat an apprentice bloody for breaking curfew, and I… I did things I’m not proud of. Most of it escapes my recollection. My behaviour was erratic enough that my Knight-Commander finally sent me away after a particularly horrific meltdown where I publicly accused the First Enchanter of being involved in Uldred’s plot and demanded he be made tranquil. I ended up reassigned to a small chapter in Greenfell. No mages, no magic, and hardly any people. Just a tiny chantry in a valley where they send templars who are too broken to serve.”

The Inquisitor released a sympathetic sigh. “Cullen…”

Her pity burned. He knew he did not deserve it. “The week I was reassigned, three apprentices went missing from the Kinloch circle. There were… _rumours_ that I had murdered them, and that I had fled for that reason.”

“That's unfortunate timing. Why did you not explain to those mages?” the Inquisitor asked. “I’m sure if they just understood....”

He was unable to meet her eye. “That would be assuming the rumours were wrong.”

“Are you telling me they are not?” the Inquisitor asked softly. He couldn't bear to look at her in case he saw disgust or horror.

He stared up at the stars, seeing nothing. “There are gaps in my memory of that time. I had screaming night terrors - times when I could not tell reality from dream. The demons were gone, but they still tortured me. It’s conceivable… I did hurt… maybe even kill people during such an episode. It’s also conceivable that the mages simply escaped. There were not enough templars to guard them, and I certainly gave them plenty of reason to want to leave.”

The Inquisitor watched him silently. When he did not go on, she stirred enough to whisper, “Even if the rumours are true, you were ill.”

“Is that an excuse?” He asked. “I was not the only survivor. Yet I became a brutal man where they did not. Even if I did not kill anyone, I know there are things I did… unforgiveable things. Things worse that murder.”

For a moment the Inquisitor looked thoughtfully up at the stars with him. “Solas says that when spirits are forced to go against their nature, that is when they become the demons we see,” she said. “I think the same can be said of people, to a degree. What you became after the circle… it was not your nature. You were forced to see and feel things you never should have experienced - that no one should have to experience. But what you became was not who you really are.”

It made him wonder who he really was after all? Had the real Cullen died in the tower, mind broken irretrievably by torture? If the mad templar that followed was not the real him, was he finally himself now? Or was this yet another transient state?

He didn’t know what he was now. But he knew he was still closer to madness than innocence. Glancing at the Inquisitor, he saw how troubled she looked. Whatever else, he had no desire to pile more worries onto her already overloaded plate of problems. Cullen caught her eye and gave her a sad smile. “Don’t look so worried. I can cope with a few mages hating my guts.”

She gave him a reproachful look. “You are a good man, Cullen. Everyone should know that.”

“You speak from a position of bias, Lady Lavellan.”

“I am the Herald of Andraste. My word is Divine Truth handed down from Andraste and the Maker himself,” she said with such utter seriousness that it took him a moment to see the mischievous glint in her eyes.

With a soft chuckle he lifted his hand as if to cup her cheek - so overwhelmed he was by the need to touch her and treasure her for bringing him mirth on such a dark night. Just in time he realised his lapse and forced it back to his side. “It would be nice to have absolution from Andraste herself,” he admitted to her.

“I wish I could give you that.”

Unable to stop himself, for it felt like the most natural thing in the world, he placed his hand upon her knee and leaned down to look her in the eye. “Your regard is all I want and need. If you can hear my sins and still call me a good man, I don’t need the Maker’s forgiveness.”

Her eyes widened at him. “Isn’t that blasphemy to your people?”

“I don’t care.” Cullen gazed down at the hand on her knee. It didn’t feel wrong. Not even when he ran his fingers lightly over her thigh and back again. “Talking with you like this…” he began, but didn’t know how to finish the thought.

“Yes?” asked Lavellan, a little eagerly.

“A few hours ago I was ready to throw months of progress away on a philter of lyrium. If you had not come to me when you had-”

“I will always be there for you when you need me,” she said earnestly, searching his eyes with hers. “Always.”

Her hand came up, jerky and uncertain, to touch the edge of his jaw. There was fear in the gaze that held his, but something else too.

“Whatever you need,” she said again, more quietly. “Whenever you need it…”

He licked his suddenly dry lips but this seemed to be a mistake as Lavellan’s gaze now dropped to his mouth. Her hesitant fingers travelled to meet the scar bisecting his upper lip - her touch so light he almost couldn’t feel it. Almost.

Cullen swallowed and took a step back. “I apologise, I’ve kept you too long and I’m sure you’re cold.”

“I’m not,” she said quickly.

“You’re without a coat. I’ve been inconsiderate-”

“I’m not cold, Commander.”

She sounded a little annoyed now. “Even so. It’s late and we both should get some sleep.”

Lavallen regarded him with one of her unreadable expressions. “As you say,” she said evenly. “May I visit you tomorrow?”

“I would like nothing more. I have a meeting in the morning, but I will be free thereafter.”

She nodded. “We will talk then.” With a hop, she dropped down from the crate and started for the steps.

Cullen caught her wrist.

“Words cannot express how grateful I am to you for tonight,” he said, speaking to the region of her collarbones. “Actions are not enough either, I fear.”

After a moment, the Inquisitor’s expression softened and her fingers clasped his warmly. “I think I understand just fine, Cullen.”


	5. Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an old library sees some use for the first time in - wait, that's not how you use a library!

**Dreams**

 

The pain is intense, burning through his spine to the centre of his brain, blinding him, reducing his entire existence to that of pain and nothing else. He never passes out. She won’t let him. And when the pain ends it is hours before he remembers he’s even human.

 _I can make it stop._ Surana’s soft hands stroke his face. Such a tiny, gentle caress feels like the greatest kindness in the world. _ They will hurt you again, but I can make it stop. Just promise yourself to me._

She has already seduced the others. She offered Tyler wealth and a beautiful wife, and now Tyler patrols the halls with a glazed expression, no longer a man but a thrall. She offered Gwilym the son the Order would not permit him to have, and now he helps drag the apprentices into the harrowing chamber to be turned - his face slack and vacant of all feeling. She gives them their desires and feeds off their delusions, and there is now nothing left of the humans they once were.

Cullen is the only one who remains.

“I can’t,” he groans. “Don’t ask it of me.”

 _I can give you the greatest pleasure you’ve ever known,_ she whispers into his mind. _ Just trust me._

“Never.”

The caress gives way to pain. The fingers that stroked him so gently curl and dig into his flesh, making him scream.  _Pathetic little templar. Panting after a mage slut. They’re nothing but animals, weak-willed and ungrateful - and you gave away your brothers lives all because you wanted that little elf tongue wrapped around your cock-_

“Stop!”

* * *

 

The sound of his own shout awoke him with a snap. He remained where he was, slowly letting the real world filter back into focus until the tension gripping his muscles drained away. He was used to the nightmares now. Once upon a time he would have awoken, kicking and screaming and reaching for his sword, but these days he could keep them under control… to a degree. He had stopped sleeping with his sword nearby, at least. He reasoned the chances of needing to defend himself in the middle of the night were less than the likelihood of him killing someone in a night-terror induced panic, so the sword stayed locked in his chest.

Running a hand through his unkempt hair, Cullen let the sounds of the early morning flow through him. The whinnying of horses, the blacksmiths hammer, the hum of voices of the early risers and, of course, the rain dripping steadily through the hole where his ceiling should have been. His growing collection of buckets caught the worst of the leak, but the room still smelled of damp and rotting wood.

Josephine had insisted on diverting builders to fix his roof, but he had been just as insistent in his refusal. Not a single slate would even be straightened on his tower until the rest of Skyhold was fortified, doubly-fortified, and then fortified further for good measure. If they were attacked again, he would rather have functional ramparts than a dry bedroom. Besides, as he tried to tell Josephine, he did not particularly mind sleeping beneath the stars and waking to fresh air.

The rain was bothersome, but he had spent many nights in the wilderness hunting apostates near Kirkwall. And frankly this was less draughty than his room had been in the Gallows.

Shaking away the lingering tendrils of his dream, Cullen rose and prepared for the new day. He washed using the rainwater collected in the buckets, and donned his armour. It didn’t see much use, but his templar sensibilities were difficult to shake. One must always be prepared, or at least look the part, as that was half the illusion of control. His men and women needed to see a commander who could jump into the fray at any moment, even if most of his work was sitting behind a desk these days.

As soon as he left the tower, it began.

“The reports you requested, sir.”

“Lady Leliana has requested a war room meeting in half an hour, sir.”

“The trebuchets have been calibrated as per the Starkhaven engineer’s specifications, sir.”

“The templars are complaining there is no room for their drills alongside our forces in the main courtyard, sir, and the only other space is near the mage’s tower. What shall I tell them, Commander?”

“You are looking in fine fettle today, Commander!”

The last was Dorian. The last time Cullen had seen him was when he had been hastily ducking out of his tower to avoid the array of objects both sharp and blunt that Cullen had thrown at his head.

“Well, by that I mean you at least seem less murderous,” Dorian continued, knowing perfectly well the commander was ashamed of himself.

“I apologise,” he said a little stiffly. “I was not myself.”

“Oh, I would love to tease you, but you’re hardly the only person who wishes to throw things at my person in this place. I routinely find myself dodging frying pans, books and knives before breakfast every day. Fortunately barbarians are not known for their excellent aiming skills.”

“It’s good you are doing your part for improving Tevinter’s reputation abroad,” said Cullen.

“That was rather droll of you, Commander, I’m impressed. But now you are feeling better, I feel compelled to invite you to a game of Wicked Grace.”

“Thank you, but I am not fond of gambling,” Cullen responded politely.

“Let those curls out and live a little, Commander,” Dorian chided him. “Besides, the Inquisitor will be there. But only if you are.”

Cullen paused. “What? W-Why would that be the case?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” The mage adjusted a buckle on his arm. “Either she’s rather fond of you, or she intends to fleece you for all you’re worth. Although perhaps one does not preclude the other. Your choice. Let Varric know by tonight.”

Cullen proceeded on to the war room, a little confused.

“Good morning, Josephine,” he greeted the antivan diplomat, who was too busy scribbling away in her ledger to look up.

“Good morning -  _ah - ma feca!_ ” She sighed and scribbled out a mistake.

Leliana had set up the war room and was steadily pacing the length of the table when he arrived. “Commander,” she greeted coolly, “How are you today?”

Almost certainly her little birds had been informing on him… or she had just talked to Cassandra. He didn’t like his personal affairs being of professional interest to his comrades, but it was unavoidable. “I am well enough,” he offered contritely.

“Glad to hear it.”

He grunted and perched a hip against the table to begin reading; requests for support, offers of assistance, nobles complaining, and even the King of Ferelden had a spy problem. Cullen snorted. “I remember when this guy was just another bastard in a templar academy full of them. Never took anything seriously. He hasn’t changed much.”

Leliana smiled faintly. “He used to ask me for advice about women, once upon a time.”

He shook his head with a faint smile. “You will never cease to surprise me. Is there anyone you  _don’t_  know?”

“There might be a few left,” she said lightly, then tapped a slim scroll at the edge of the pile. “A reply from my Denerim agent… concerning the matter you asked me to look into.”

Cullen’s smile slipped a little. After a pause, he picked up the scroll and opened it with a snap. Leliana watched his face with naked curiosity as he read. “What would you have my agent do with her?”

With a vaguely glazed expression, Cullen nodded. “Have her brought here. If she agrees to it. Offer her protection, and any resource she needs for her research.”

“Her research being… the dermatology of nugs?” Leliana raised an eyebrow. “You feel this is an appropriate use of Inquisition resources?”

Cullen glared at her. “I’m sure she’ll let you pet the nugs.”

“ _If_  she accepts.” Leliana took back the scroll. “And if she does, my agent could have here here within the fortnight.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m sure you will return the favour in due course.” He knew Leliana was fond of accumulating favours. He already owed her several.

“Have you read this one?” she asked him now, handing him another report.

Cullen obliged. As he read, his eyebrows rose ever higher and higher until he reached the end and he turned his perplexed expression on Leliana. “Has the Inquisitor seen this?”

“Not yet.”

“Then this ought to be interesting.”

“Indeed.”

As if speaking her name had summoned her, the doors opened and Josephine strode in, the Inquisitor following closely behind. Cullen stood a little straighter and bowed along with Leliana. It did not escape him how Lavellan’s eyes lingered on him for a moment too long, before addressing Leliana.

“You have a report?” she inquired.

“Yes, Inquisitor.” Leliana handed Lavallen a scroll and began to summarise. Cullen half-listened, half watched the Inquisitor read. She was a quick, expressive reader, and pursed her lips appreciatively as Leliana explained something about excavating tunnels beneath Skyhold and deep road connections that had been discovered.

“It is a blessing,”Leliana continued. “Should we face a siege like Haven, we can use the tunnels to keep supply lines open, not to mention the possibility of evacuation. We still need more people to scout the tunnels and secure safe routes.”

Here she looked at Cullen, who had until that moment been gazing absently at the Inquisitor and the way she touched her earlobe when she was thinking. After far too lengthy a pause, he realised he was expected to respond. “Yes.” he blurted. “Of course. I can provide any extra personnel you need.”

Leliana’s stare was a little hard.

“Don’t darkspawn roam the deep roads?” Lavellan asked.

“It is a risk, yes,” Cullen told her. “If we knew what had happened to the grey wardens, I would prefer to ask for their help in this matter, but the way things are…”

“Perhaps we should avoid the deep roads wherever possible,” the Inquisitor said. “The scouts should concentrate on mapping the tunnels closer to the surface for now. I would hate to risk lives needlessly, at least not until we find allies more familiar with the deep roads.”

“We can contact Orzammar for assistance,” suggested Josephine. “They have an army specialised in fighting darkspawn.”

Lavallen nodded. “That would be ideal if it can be arranged.”

Leliana inclined her head. “As you wish, Inquisitor.”

That Leliana did not continue to discuss the issue meant she was satisfied with the answer. Now it was Josephine’s turn to report in.

“The only other item on the agenda,” the ambassador began, handing Lavellan the scroll that had Leliana and Cullen trading significant looks. “We finally received word back from your clan. This is the message your Keeper sent back with our envoy.”

There was no mistaking the relief in the Inquisitor’s face as she hastily took the scroll and began to read. She smiled at first, but as she began to near the end of the letter, confusion tugged her fine eyebrows together. “Wait… what is she saying…?” She looked at Josephine. “She intends to  _come here?_ ”

Cullen had gotten the impression from the letter that the Keeper of the Lavellan clan was quite the busybody. Not content with hearing word that her First was not only safe and sound, but now honoured as the Herald of Andraste, she had decided to come see for herself.

Judging from Lavellan’s evident irritation, he was correct in this judgement.

“We have entertained a number of curious leaders and emissaries,” said Josephine. “Your clan would be welcome here.”

“You say that now…”

“Is there a problem?” Cullen asked her.

“Not yet.” The Inquisitor schooled her expression and tucked the scroll into her jacket. “Is that all?”

Unused to such an abrupt dismissal, the advisors looked at each other. “For this morning,” Leliana said.

“Thank you.”

The Inquisitor turned on her heel and silently slipped away.

“What was that about?” Josephine wondered aloud.

“You would be pleased if your family showed up in Skyhold?” Leliana asked her.

“It depends… do you have those escape tunnels cleared yet?” Josephine fired back.

Everyone’s family was a little embarrassing, Cullen supposed. It was difficult to be young and away from home for the first time, forging a new reputation… only for the people who knew you intimately to show up and usually find a way to put you in your place. How would he feel if Mia showed up with all his nephews and nieces in tow? She would probably waste no time chewing him out in front of the entirety of the Inquisition’s armed forces for not writing to her.

Even so, he didn’t think he would ever be unhappy to see his family.

The rest of the morning was spent in the training yard, overseeing the drills of the new troops. With the addition of a few veterans to assist in schooling the newcomers, Cullen for once didn’t feel like tearing his hair out. He moved up and down the ranks, correcting stances, performing demonstrations, and clipping anyone around the ear who thought that just because the training swords were made of wood meant they didn’t have to treat it as carefully as they would a real sword.

In between assisting the recruits, he fended off messengers.

“Mr Varric would like confirmation of whether or not you wish to attend game night,” asked one dwarven messenger.

“If it means he’ll stop bothering me, yes.”

“Seeker Pentaghast wants to see you at your earliest convenience,” said another messenger.

“My earliest convenience may be some time,” he replied, sending the messenger on his way.

“Sir?” piped another messenger uncertainly.

“What is it?”

“The, uh, Iron Bull wishes to relay the following message.” The hooded woman cleared her throat. _“‘Lookin’ good, Commander’.”_

Following her pointed finger, Cullen looked up to see the hulking qunari figure leaning over the battlements some distance away with what looked like a few of his chargers. Even from this distance, Cullen saw his giant thumbs up.

“Maker save me…”

When the next messenger approached him, Cullen was quite prepared to chase them away with a training sword. “Lady Leliana asks if you have seen the Inquisitor, Commander?”

Turning away from the limp-wristed recruit he had been helping, Cullen gave the messenger a curious frown. “Not since the meeting this morning, why?”

“It appears the Inquisitor has… disappeared. She is trying to ascertain if this is something to worry about yet.” The messenger ducked into a bow. “Thank you for your time, Commander. We are sure there is no need for concern.”

There was no faster way to raise his concern than to tell him there was no need for it. He knew Leliana had always kept close watch on the Inquisitor. At first it had been to see if she was truly the one responsible for the massacre at the conclave, or see who she might be an informant for. Lately, however, it was more for the Inquisitor’s own protection.

Whether Levallen knew of it or not, he didn’t know, but she was a clever woman and had to expect she was being closely monitored. Had she given Leliana the slip deliberately?

Or had something happened?

Cullen caught Rylen’s eye and called him over. “Take over for me?” His second in command thumped his shoulder with an amicable, and began to stroll along the lines of soldiers, issuing typical drill sergeant abuse in his thick Starkhaven accent.

Cullen left him to it and let himself into one of the old servant entrances beneath the great hall. The passage led him down into the bowels of the ancient fortress, where the stone walls were slick with cold perspiration, and his boots slapped through small puddles. The smell of food drifted along the corridor. The kitchens were nearby, and this was a path frequented by maids and servants. He took the passages leading away from the warmth and the bustling activity, heading deeper into the recesses of the undercroft where there still remained unexplored rooms, and chambers for which they had found no use for yet.

He nearly passed a winding staircase that led down into dank darkness - until he caught the faint whiff of magic. Only a templar might detect such a faint trace. Taking a gamble, he headed down into the pitch black hole, bracing his hand against the wall for guidance. The floor levelled out, leaving him in yet another passage he had never seen before. There were a few doors that he could make out, but only one was line with light.

Someone was inside.

Cullen hoped it was who he thought it would be. The only other explanation was that they had an unwelcome guest, or he was about to walk in on a pair of lovers who had come down here for a spot of privacy.

Just in case it was the latter, he knocked.

He felt rather than heard the occupant of the room go still. Without invitation he pressed on the panel and swung it open.

Lavellan was stood over an ancient reading desk looking very guilty indeed. The wall to either side of her bore lit torches. She had used magic by the smell of it.

He had no plans to scold her for worrying him or Leliana. He was mostly relieved she was fine, though he had suspected as much. The Inquisitor was competent enough that should anyone try to kidnap her or assassinate her within Skyhold, he had no doubt she would not have gone so quietly.

“Is this the room you were talking about?” he asked her, remembering their conversation from the previous night. The walls were lined with dusty books and scrolls. A quick glance revealed they were in no language he understood. The Inquisitor had one open on the large plinth that dominated the desk.

“My refuge,” she agreed.

“Cosy,” he observed. “Though it could do with a little cleaning.”

“I’m afraid if you tried to dust any of the books in this room, they would become dust themselves.” Since he was not scolding her or urging her to return to the world above, she seemed to relax a little. “If you are staying, please close the door. You’re letting the heat out.”

Cullen hesitated for a moment. He was supposed to be drilling his troops. There were also a million other things he needed to get done that day. But instead he stepped further into the room and nudged the door shut behind him. “What are you reading?”

“A book,” she answered cagily.

“I can see that.” He came over to the desk to take a look. Delicate squiggles covered the fragile pages in patterns that looked more like diagrams than words. He raised an eyebrow. “You can read this?”

“It’s elvhen,” she said, before adding with a tiny sigh, “No, I can’t read it.”

“You don’t understand your own language?” he asked, a little confused.

Lavellan gave him a sharp look. “Few elves do. Studying elvish is something Keepers dedicate their whole lives to, and I know only a few keepers who could even hold a conversation in the old tongue. Most of us only know a few words, some phrases.”

“That’s… unfortunate.” He didn’t know what else to say. He was acutely aware that it was his own people that was responsible for the loss of hers. Did she resent him for this?

“Unfortunate is a word for it,” she said softly. “Solas astonishes me. He speaks the language  _fluently_  - I don’t know any dalish elf who can. Certainly my Keeper can’t.”

With a harsher sigh she leant on the plinth, hip jutting out. “The job of a Keeper is to literally ‘keep’ the ancient ways alive, but it seems futile when there is so little left to keep alive. My people obsess over a dead culture, looking back when we should be looking around us. Do you know why I was sent to the conclave?”

“I was curious…” Which was something of an understatement. When they had first found her unconscious in the smoking remains of the temple, there had been ferocious arguments that had lasted for days concerning who she was and why she was there. Lavellan had yet to explain herself.

Until now.

“My Keeper wanted to know what secrets the Temple of Sacred Ashes held in regards to elves and their involvement with Andraste’s exalted march. She felt we had been written out of history by humans and that we would find the truth there, using the conclave as cover. So many people were congregating, no one would notice a dalish elf, surely?”

“Did you find what you were looking for?” he asked her.

“No, and that’s not the point.” Lavellan frowned at the floor. “My Keeper was only concerned with finding a little tidbit of ancient knowledge to tuck under her belt and show off to the other clans and saw no reason to inform me of anything else. I arrived at the conclave entirely ignorant of its purpose, of the war and the tensions and the  _danger_.  These things are of no concern to the dalish, you see. Except, they  _should_  be. Holes in the sky and insane ancient darkspawn magisters - this affects the  _world_. But my clan does not consider itself to be part of the world. I didn’t even realise this until I left them… and if I was still with them now, I would be continuing in ignorant bliss.”

“Ignorant bliss is underrated,” he told her. “There are times I wish I had remained a poor farmer in Ferelden.”

She turned to look at him closely, her gaze wandering over his broad shoulders. “I could see you as a farmer,” she mused. “Perhaps there is some other version of the world out there, where I am still wandering between the trees in the Free Marches, and you are digging up roots in Ferelden, and both of us are happy.”

“Happy?” he repeated. “Do you mean to say you are unhappy now?”

“Not for knowing you,” she said warmly, though her gaze slid away. In the low orange light of the torches, he cheeks were dusted with a little more colour than usual. “Having your eyes pried opened after being ignorant for so long does not lend itself to happiness. But I wouldn’t wish to close them again, whatever happens.”

“What was your life before the Inquisition?”

Lavellan glanced up at him with a coy look. “I’m sure you’ve read Leliana’s report. I have. It’s quite thorough. There were a few things in there even I didn’t know.”

He smiled. “I don’t know much about dalish upbringing. Reports can’t really tell me what your life was like before you came to us.”

After he had bared all to her last night - something he hadn’t done in a long time - it was only fair that she share her story too. Lavellan turned and rested her hip against the writing desk. She was standing close enough that the fur of his pauldrons brushed her shoulder. “There is nothing terribly exciting about my life,” she began apologetically. “If you read the report, then you know I wasn’t born to the Lavellan clan. My birth clan was the Harrathal clan, but when I manifested my powers I was given over to the Lavellan clan. Too many mages, you see. I was lucky the Lavellan clan could take me in… if they had not I would have been sent to Kirkwall’s Gallows. Better than being abandoned in the snow, but with all due respect, Commander, I am glad we did not meet sooner under such circumstances.”

Cullen blinked at her. According to Leliana’s report, she had manifested her powers at the age of ten, three years before he’d arrived at Kirkwall as a bitter young man. To think by some small twist of fate she could have been one of the mages under his care there? He dreaded to think what would have befallen her there. From the rampant abuse and rape that had taken place behind closed doors, to the flippant use of the rite of tranquility in response to minor rule violations… would she have been one of the mages to survive? To escape? Or fall prey to the allure of blood magic?

No… never the latter. The whole world could fall apart around her (as it literally had more than once) and Lavellan’s principles and selflessness would always emerge intact.

“It must have been difficult to be separated from your parents so young,” he said, hoping to move past the mental image of Lavellan in the robes of a circle mage.

Lavallen looked at him curiously. “Not in particular,” she said slowly. “It was difficult leaving my clan, yes, but you have to understand that to the dalish the bond between parent and child is not as sacred as it seems to be to humans. A dalish child is a child of the entire clan. Every woman is your mother. Every man your father. Every other child is your sibling. We are all one family, regardless of you gave birth to you. I’m not saying we don’t love our children as intensely as humans do, only that the love and responsibility is shared between the entire clan.”

“Huh.” Cullen struggled to wrap his head around that. There was a saying in Honnleath that it took a village to raise a child, but this seemed to be taking it to an extreme. “So to you, your mother was just another woman in your clan.”

“I loved her, as I loved all the women who raised me. She was sad to see me go. But the Keeper of the Harrathal clan was the one who had given me an education, who had healed by hurts when I fell, and told me stories of the old days. She was my true mother.”

“And your father?”

“I never knew him.” Lavellan offered him another of her reserved smiles. “It was one of the surprises the report held for me. I never knew my father’s name, and goodness knows how Leliana found that one out.”

“Is that… normal for the dalish?” he asked awkwardly, hoping he wasn’t about to give offense.

“Oh, yes,” she said, quite at ease. “There is no marriage amongst the dalish. You take a lover when you are ready - for a night or a lifetime, it doesn’t matter. I knew my father was of another clan, that he lay with my mother for a night, and soon after I was born. This isn’t so unusual for my people.”

Seeing his expression, she cocked her head. “You don’t approve?”

“What? No. I mean, it’s not that I don’t approve. I just don’t think I could give a woman a child and then walk away so easily. Are you not angry at him?”

“Why would I be? I was conceived during an Arlathvhen - one of the few times dalish clans ever meet up. It is a point of amusement that many children are born after these meetings. We’re called Arlath’len. It means ‘children of love’. Children are not so common for the dalish, so each is a blessing, however they came to be. And as I say… children are raised by the entire clan - the absence of the man who sired you matters little. Most of the children in the Lavellan clan are born the same way.”

“I could not be so casual, I fear,” he said, shifting awkwardly.

Lavellan seemed to find his discomfort amusing. “There is nothing casual about love. It is merely that the Arlathvhen could be one of the few occasions in your life when you meet elves you arenot related to, especially if you are of a small clan. We don’t have the luxury of free intermingling, and so...”

She let the implication hang.

And it begged the question. “Have you…?”

“Have I?” Her face was the picture of innocence. But he was sure she knew what he was asking.

“Ever… been swept up in one of these, uh-?”

“Arlathvhens?” Her eyes twinkled at him. “Well, the last Arlathvhen was two years ago, the same year I came of age. I met many handsome young men who were very interested in getting to know the First of the Lavellan clan.”

He wasn’t surprised, yet still found himself thinking unpleasant thoughts about such young men. “I see.”

“Alas, I was already promised to a hunter of my own clan.”

Now that wasn’t in Leliana’s report. “You were engaged?”

“We have no marriage,” she reminded him gently. A ‘promise’ is just that - the promise to be faithful to one another, and support the other. For the more romantic sorts, it’s traditional for the man to make a piece of jewellery and offer it to the woman he loves, and if she consents to wear it, she’s his.”

He nearly jumped back from her. “That  _is_  marriage!”

“I suppose you could see it that way… although there is no grand ceremony or vows or pieces of paper.”

He quickly scanned her form - searching for innocuous pieces of jewellery he might not have noticed before. But the Inquisitor wore nothing but the clothes they had given her. “Are you still…?”

She laughed, a beautiful sound akin to bells. “I may not have been swept up at the Arlathvhen, but he certainly was. After the first night, he asked me to return the amulet he had given me, and the next day I saw it around the neck of another clan’s hearthmistress.”

Cullen winced, but found himself relaxing again. “That must have hurt.”

“At the time…” she admitted, her gaze turning introspective. She did not seem all that angry with the memory. “It would not have lasted either way. He was older than I, but seemed much younger in many ways. We were not well suited and would often argue… I did not have enough experience of men to realise that it could have -  _should_  have been better. That it is not enough to simply enjoy the physical side of things, but to admire a man as an equal for his mind and his principles. I held no such respect for Ardeth.”

“Will Ardeth be coming to Skyhold, do you think?” he asked her.

“He’s the clan’s warleader, so almost certainly.”

Wonderful.

“What about you?”

He glanced down at her. “Pardon?”

Her coquettish smile had returned, and she looked up at him through her lashes. “Commander, you cannot ask a woman such deeply personal questions such as who she has lain with, and then offer nothing in response.”

“My interest is purely professional, for the sake of the Inquisition.” But Lavellan didn’t even bat an eyelid at him, not fooled for a second. “Besides, one of your first acts as Inquisitor was to to question me about templar vows of chastity.”

“Professional interest,” she interjected. “I was curious about templars… my Keeper was very insistent I keep away from them. If she knew I was all alone with one right now, she would call down the entire pantheon upon my head.”

“You don’t seem worried to be alone with me,” he pointed out.

“I’m not sure I could trust templars in general, and I’m sure the feeling is mutual. I’ve learned that much. But you are the exception. You are my tame templar.”

“Tame?” he affected a tone of mild outrage, which only caused her smile to widen.

“When we were introduced, I thought we were unlikely to get along. I was certain you would never trust me, and you were just another soldier bred for his brawn rather than brains.” She looked down with a faint cringe. “I know. I regret my prejudices. I never thought I would come to enjoy your company so much. I…. I admire you a lot. For your mind and your principles, you have my deepest respect.”

Judging from her inability to meet his eye and the new flush that spread over her cheeks, he doubted it was a coincidence she had chosen to describe him with the same words she had used to describe an ideal lover.

This was very dangerous territory. He was acutely aware of how closely they stood, how her chest rose and fell a little faster than normal. How his own pulse thundered in his veins. He should leave and gain the perspective that safe distance would grant him, but he could not. “You have no idea what your kind regard means to me,” he said, his voice rough. “You are a singular woman.”

After a long moment she lifted her chin and met his gaze with her own. “I am a mage,” she told him quietly. “And an elf.”

“You are also exceptionally kind and wise. And if not for your intervention last night, I may have quit the Inquisition today.”

Her hand touched the cool slab of his breast plate, her fingers curling around the edge as if to hold him where he was. Worry shone from her expressive eyes. “You mustn’t leave me…” she whispered. “I depend on you. You’re my commander, you need to - to command things for me.”

 It was not often the Inquisitor stumbled over her words. As endearing as it was, he knew all too well how confidence in one sphere did not translate to confidence in another. He could stand on the battlements and rally a thousand men and women to accept an elf as their new messiah, but his heart trembled at the thought of being put in another’s hands.

It was easier to fight abominations than it was to say what he meant. He lifted his hands to rest on the writing desk to either side of the Inquisitor, trapping her between his arms. Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of his armour. “When I’m around you,” he began. “I feel different. My head hurts less, the world seems quieter, and things make so much more sense. I’m yours to command as long as you would have me.”

Lavellan’s eyes fluttered shut and she seemed to sway on the spot for a moment.

On impulse, he caught her narrow chin in his gloved hand and tilted her face up. His lips brushed hers - the slightest of hesitations - testing for her reaction.

Between one heartbeat and the next she lifted herself up on the balls of her feet and met his kiss with equal earnest. Soft lips slid against his, parted, caressed and coaxed, all the while her hand gripped his armour, keeping him close.

He’d thought it would just be one kiss. One kiss would have been enough. His heart was already fit to burst, feeling as giddy and insecure as a young boy again. When he tried to draw back to speak, Lavellan’s slim hand curled through his hair and drew him back into another kiss. And another. Each one deeper and longer than the last.

A tiny sigh caught and cracked in her throat. The small sound elicited an answering groan, and Cullen’s hands stroked down her sides and up her back, committing her modest curves to memory - something he had once not dared think would ever be possible. When his hand paused at the small of her back and pressed her closer, the moan that escaped her throat was almost his undoing.

He stepped forward, forcing her back against the desk and bending them over it. The ancient elvhen text slipped off the plinth and clattered to the floor. Solas would probably skin them if he knew. Right then they cared for nothing except to press closer and indulge in the comfort only another warm body could provide. He stroked her throat. She grasped his shoulders. When she moaned into their kiss he had to break away and press his forehead to hers. It had been too long since he’d been with a woman. It would be too easy to go too far.

“What is it?” Lavellan asked, sensing his hesitation. Her fingers stroked through his hair, sending the most delicious sensation racing down his spine.

“I want you,” he whispered savagely, squeezing his eyes shut against the desire rolling through him.

“Oh.” Those fingers tightened in his hair. “Well then… have me.”

“No,” he said weakly.

“Yes,” she corrected.

“Mm-yes.” He did not require too much convincing. Just one look at her flushed face and heavy-lidded eyes made him groan and lean in for another kiss, more fevered and desperate than the others. His hands roamed her body greedily, urged on by her encouraging sighs.

It was happening too quickly, becoming a blur. Her leg shifted, her inner thigh rubbing against his hip. His hand slipped between her legs and pressed-

Lavellan cried out with desire - her body so responsive and trembling -

The door behind slammed open. “What - Commander -!”

The couple broke apart guiltily, looking almost everywhere except at each other or Cassandra, who stood in the doorway looking equally as scandalised as she was enraged. No one knew quite what to say.

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra began in her lowest, iciest tone. “You are needed in the great hall.”

It might have been true, but Cullen had the strongest feeling that Cassandra merely wanted him alone so as to murder him with no witnesses. Lavellan hesitated, though she knew better than to argue. “Thank you, Cassandra,” she managed with great dignity, though her voice was husky and her hair still dishevelled. She slipped around the Seeker and disappeared from sight.

Cullen rubbed his neck and kept his back to Cassandra. He still needed a moment to… cool off.

The moment the Inquisitor’s footsteps faded into the distance, Cassandra rounded on him. “Have you completely lost your mind?!” she demanded.

“This does not concern you,” he grunted, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Oh, no. If you were groping maids in closets, it would not concern me. Groping the Inquisitor is another matter.  _That_  concerns me. That concerns me a great deal!”

“Really now-”

“You forget yourself! You are the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces and she is the Herald of Andraste! The success of this organisation lives and dies upon the Inquisitor’s reputation; if people are to believe she speaks for Andraste herself, she can be seen as nothing short of Divine! Her reputation must be impeccable! Especially if people are to overlook her other flaws-”

“You mean her being an elf and a mage,” he sneered.

Cassandra narrowed her eyes at him. “You know as well as I do the opposition we have faced because of it.” She began to pace the narrow space before the door, prowling like a disgruntled predator.  “I do not pretend it is right, but I won’t pretend it isn’t true. We cannot add adulterous to her reputation.”

“Maker’s Blood!” he swore, running a hand through his hair. “Even Andraste herself wasn’t that squeaky clean! You realise our whole religion was founded because the Maker desired a married woman for himself.”

“That may be true, if deliberately crude,” she ground out, reddening at how close they came to blasphemy. “But you expect people to be so logical? The chantry has been equating chastity to divinity since its foundation - people will object-”

Cullen rounded on her. “She could be a child-stealing blood mage and it would not matter so long as she keeps trying to heal the hole in the sky. That’s what concerns people! Not whom she beds, or how long her ears are, or whether she kills demons with a sword or a staff!”

“Even if that were true, you know that’s not the only reason this is a mistake,” Cassandra went on stiffly. “Surely even you can see the problems in taking to bed the woman whose life rests in your hands - who depends on your clear judgement. There will be times when you need to send her into places where lives will be lost. Could you do that?”

Cullen actually laughed. “Are you accusing me of having my judgement compromised, after I have warned you again and again that I was having hallucinations, and you refused to stand me down again and again? Suddenly you care?”

“ _Lyrium_  never compromised your judgement, just your health. The same cannot be said for lust. How many more would we have lost at Haven if you had stopped the Inquisitor from leading away Corypheus’s forces? Can you be sure you can remain objective if her life is threatened? Who will we lose if you fail to place the Inquisitor where we need her, out of misplaced affection?”

“You assume I would forgo duty for a woman,” he grunted.

“Wouldn’t you?” Cassandra’s lip curled faintly.

“The last time I loved a woman, I was handed a sword and told to cut off her head the second my superior gave the word.” He strode forward, using his greater size to force Cassandra to step aside. “Do not think that I have not been tested, or that I would ever hesitate to do what is necessary… whatever it cost me.”

Cassandra’s cheek twitched as she clenched her jaw, but she had said her piece and she let him leave. She only had one parting shot left. “If you threaten anything we have built here, I will tear you down faster than you can draw that sword!”

“If I ever did such a thing, Seeker, I would let you!”

Cullen stormed back to his solar with a thundercloud in his wake. A dwarven messenger who had attempted to intercept him in the courtyard quickly shut her mouth when she saw him and gave him wide berth instead. He slammed into his tower with a growl, wishing he could slam the door harder without it falling completely off its hinges.

For the problem was not that Cassandra had irritated him with her unwanted insinuations…

But that he feared she could be right.

 


	6. Adamantly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which no one likes a noble prat.

**Adamantly**

****  
  


At the end of his tether, Cullen had lain within his cell, waiting. For the next appearance of the demon, for the next round of torture. For death to finally release him. Where his body was tethered, his mind wandered far and wide, conjuring old memories and dreams. He remembered Honnleath. He remembered playing chess against his sister, and the greivous injustice he felt to see her flagrant cheating. He remembered the lake. In spring, just after dawn, the water could be so still it was as perfect as a mirror. He had sometimes gone down there with his brother, where they would take their clothes off and throw themselves into the mirror-water as if they might smash their way into that upside down world. And, because this was Honnleath, this would be followed by sitting on the bank for half an hour, picking off the leeches.

The smell of turnips roasting in the stove. The feel of clovers between his naked toes. The taste of blood in his mouth from Matthias’ punch. It was more real to him than the wavering pink barrier, or the stones beneath his cheek that stank of old blood.

He’d heard noises that pulled him from his past. The sounds of shouting and explosions. Had some of the few remaining mages staged an escape? They wouldn’t make it far, they never did, before they succumbed to the temptation of blood magic.

So quick to sell themselves and their fondest friends for a little power. So predictable.

When all had gone quiet, he lapsed back into a stupor. He roused only when he became aware he was no longer alone in the anteroom.

“Who’s there?” he croaked, lifting himself enough to look around dizzily. Not only was the lyrium withdrawal beginning to bite, but the demons did not seem to know or care that humans needed food. Water leaked through the cracks in the stonework when it rained, enough to have kept him alive so far, but his cell had been dry for too long. He’d grown dehydrated.

“The poor boy...”

He tried to locate the source of the voice, and saw a shape on the other side of the barrier. Human? When his eyes managed to focus, he thought he recognised her. “Wynne…?”

Why would he see her now? Of all people?

“Is that… is that Cullen?”

Another voice. One he knew far too well. Cullen groaned and curled in on himself, pressing his hands over his head. “I know what you are. It won’t work.” he said brokenly. He had been fooled too many times.

“Don’t you recognise me…?”

 

* * *

 

“Commander, sir?”

Cullen glanced up at Scout Harding leaning through the doorway to the war room. Until that moment he had been scowling hard at the pieces on the map, rearranging troops according to their need, rotating in fresh units, retiring those who had been deployed too long. Harding’s interruption was a welcome relief. Only then did he realise how the muscles of his forehead ached. “Yes?”

“The lookouts have reported in, Sir,” she told him. “The Inquisitor and her team has been seen in Snake Pass. She’ll be back in Skyhold within the hour.”

Cullen quashed the flutter in his stomach. “Thank you, Harding.”

It had been three weeks since the Inquisitor had last set foot in Skyhold; she had left the morning after his confrontation with Cassandra in the bowels of the undercroft. He hadn’t been able to see Lavellan privately. The preparations for an expedition were always flurried, public ordeals, and his only choice had been to stand aside with the other advisors as the Inquisitor bid her farewells, offering him only a secretive smile to let him know the previous evening had happened at all.

He had tried to return it, but his own smile with a weak, watered down mirror of her own.

As always, Skyhold made do with infrequent updates by carrier crow. The subject of the reports had ranged between the tyranny of sand and venatori, and then casual mentions of a high dragon. Every new crow had sent daggers of fear slicing through his heart. Would this one be the crow that brought news of the Inquisitor’s demise? Would it be the next one?

The nights were worse than usual. On the few occasions he managed to grab more than an hour’s sleep before daybreak, his nightmares forced him awake, leaving him shuddering in a bed damp with cold sweat. The images burned into his mind did not fade so easily, and during the quiet moments of the day he could sometimes be found staring into the distance, caught between memories, or the shadows of nightmares.

On the days when lyrium’s call was especially strong and the edges of his vision blurred with grey fog, the people from his past refused to leave him alone. Sometimes he would see Tyler talking to someone near the tavern. Sometimes it was Samson, or Maria. Once, it was even Surana. But if he looked again it was invariably just another templar or mage who shared similar colouring.

Finalising the arrangements of the war table, Cullen picked up a stack of reports he had written over the past fortnight and made his way through the hold. Rain slashed against the painted glass windows of the main hall and the long room was thick with people. Either half of Skyhold’s residents seemed to have taken refuge from the weather, or Josephine had been working overtime with the invitations.

In the entryway to the hall he found Vivienne and Cassandra loitering and observing the rain. Or Cassandra was looking at the rain and Vivienne was looking at Cassandra’s boots. “You really must make more of an effort, Cassandra dear,” Cullen heard her saying as he approached. “Appearance is ninety percent. Exceptional aesthetics exude a natural authority; one cannot overlook the importance of what your appearance says about you-”

Vivienne glanced up as Cullen drew alongside them. He was only hesitating before stepping out into the rain, but that hesitation was all it took. Vivienne drew him into the one-sided conversation.

“Take the Commander for example,” she said, gesturing to Cullen. “Note the colour coordination and the choice of colours - red to speak of passion and blood, and gold for wealth and divinity. The _perfect_ message to project as a warrior of the Inquisition. Our commander even understands the effectiveness of a motif. The mimicry of the lion’s appearance… the Commander hails from the land of the dogs and appropriates Orlesian symbolism, pleasing both sides, while capitalising upon the attributes we associate with lions: majesty, power, ferociousness.”

Cullen looked at the First Enchanter, vaguely disconcerted. “I’ve had this coat for six years. It’s red and gold because they’re templar colours, I just wear it over my armour instead of under it these days. The pauldrons were a gift from my fellow advisors, and I took the helmet off the body of a dead chevalier.”

“We gave him the hairiest pauldrons we could find because he was shivering at the conclave.” Cassandra explained with paper-thin patience. “Cullen literally has no other clothes.”

Undeterred, Vivienne turned back to her. “All the more impressive. If even the Commander can be so effortless in his fashion, surely there is hope for you too?”

“Urgh.” Cassandra’s disgusted noise was usually the first warning sign. Cullen quickly stepped out into the rain.

He was soaked in three steps. The water slid mercilessly down the back of his neck and beneath his clothes, drawing a grim curse from the Commander as he squelched his way across the sodden courtyard. Few people were about, but more than there ought to be for such conditions. There were a number of newcomers who had only arrived in Skyhold with the last fortnight, and all were eager enough for a glimpse of the mysterious Inquisitor that even torrential downpours couldn’t see them off.

Leliana and Josephine were already by the portcullis gates, standing out of the rain. They must have been there a while since both looked remarkably dry.

Josephine was staring at him quite baldly. “What?” he barked at her.

“Your hair…”

He lifted a hand self-consciously to his sopping head. The last thing he needed right now was a bad-hair day when he was about to see the Inquisitor for the first time in three weeks- no. He had been working hard to stop those kinds of thoughts. “What about my hair?” he asked guardedly.

“It’s… curly!” The ambassador, transfixed, reached out slowly as if to touch it.

Cullen just as slowly pushed her hand down. “Lady Montilyet, you’ll only make it worse.”

“Oh. We wouldn’t want that.” Josephine pressed her lips together, as if she was fighting the urge to ruffle him up even more.

“It shouldn’t be long now,” said Leliana, gazing off into the haze of rain that almost obscured the far side of Skyhold’s causeway.

A screech like a dying dragon echoed through the valley. Cullen winced. He knew that damned Halla when he heard it. A moment later and he saw movement on the other side of the bridge. It was almost certainly the Inquisitor and her team.

Cullen looked down, trying to mentally fortify himself. He’d had three weeks to examine the situation, to gain perspective and carefully think about the consequences of his own behaviour. Cassandra hadn’t been wrong, as much as it galled him to admit. The Inquisitor’s reputation was a fragile thing, and gossip could easily derail the momentum their organisation had managed to build. But that, frankly, was nothing compared to the ramifications in loving a woman who he would have to send into battle again and again.

Was he even ready for a relationship? When his nights were still haunted by images of Surana holding him down… violating him… what could he offer? Someone like Lavellan deserved better than broken pieces that didn’t fit back together.

He had made his decision. There was every logical reason why he needed to step back and return a semblance of professional detachment to his relationship with the Inquisitor. For the sake of the both of them, and everyone else who belonged to the Inquisition, he needed to push his desires aside. He was good at that, wasn’t he? His unwavering control had kept him alive when more experienced and more powerful people had fallen around him. It would serve him now.

The dripping Halla clipped delicately into his line of sight. Its breath emerged as a great gust of steam that encased his hand as it nuzzled him, searching for sweet treats. Cullen forced himself to look up.

Sitting astride her unique mount in a waxed leather cloak that transformed her silhouette, the Inquisitor looked quite otherworldly. She tipped back her hood, but it had done little to protect her from the rain. Strands of hair clung to her skin, mingling with the swirling tattoos along her brow and cheekbones. Her hooded gaze was fixed on him, her cheeks pale, her soft pink lips parted faintly.

Cullen’s resolve shattered as if it had never been. He smiled gently as he reached up  to take the reins. His warm hands enclosed over her cold ones, only for a moment, but they lingered just a moment too long to be professional. “Welcome back, Inquisitor,” he said.

An answering smile tilted the corners of her mouth. The sight made his heart feel like it was glowing red hot in his chest. “It is good to be back,” she said gently. “I’ve missed you. All. You all. Everyone.”

“Yes,” drawled Dorian, from a dappled mare behind her. “And I for one am eager to stand around in the rain even longer.”

Clearing her throat faintly, the Inquisitor tossed her leg over the saddle and allowed Cullen to catch her waist and lower her down to the ground. Once again his hands persisted a moment too long, bringing a warmth to the Inquisitor’s pale cheeks. Conscious of Leliana’s stare and Josephine tapping her pursed lips with her quill, he turned away, handing off the reins to one of the attendants who had rushed forth. Lavellan moved to greet her other advisors.

Dorian pulled up beside Cullen. His moustache had not survived the rain, but his mischief was not similarly dampened. “Is it my turn to be helped down by the strapping blond templar?”

Cullen shot the mage such an icy look, Dorian shivered theatrically and rode on.

Blackwall greeted him with a terse nod and a dripping beard, while Sera sneezed loudly in his direction as a form of greeting. A fifth figure brought up the rear.

Hawke cut a weary figure these days. She slipped from her horse and groaned in protest of her saddle sores. She nodded at Cullen in recognition and limped past him. “That deer thing,” she muttered to him, “screeched the entire way.”

The debriefing waited until the arrivals had a chance to dry themselves and change their clothes. The drafty war room was overlooked in favour of congregating in the Inquisitor’s solar - a place that Cullen had only visited once during the initial inspection of Skyhold’s condition. He hadn’t seen it since, but the Inquisitor had made her chambers rather cosy in the intervening time. She’d chosen furnishings that were simple, made for warmth and comfort than ostentatiousness. Piles of books lay around the room - a quick glance showed that a fair few were books about human history and customs. The Inquisitor had clearly been giving herself a crash course since her arrival.

It was difficult to keep his eyes off her, even when he should have been paying attention to what Hawke had to say about the grey wardens or Leliana’s reminiscing of the Hero of Ferelden. Every time he pried his attention back to the conversation at hand, he found his gaze slipping back to where the Inquisitor reclined on her chaise longue. Her quiet elegance couldn’t be disguised by the drab robe she’d found to drape around her thin frame. The muted light of the fire played off the angles of her face, illuminating her quick, intelligent eyes which occasionally met his.

As intent as he was upon the Inquisitor’s perfection, he still managed to internalise the discussion. A demon army was being raised, by none other than the grey wardens. They’d been driven to madness over a false ‘calling’. Leliana shared what she knew of their fortress and their numbers, while Josephine listed potential allies. Cullen sat forward and gave his suggestion: to lay siege to the Grey Warden’s stronghold and bring them to heel. They had the numbers, they had the weaponry, and the recruits were eager to prove themselves.

It was a grim inevitability, as no one offered any alternative. Even Josephine who always plugged from the diplomatic solutions remained quiet and offered the names of some nobles who would lend them the necessary siege machines.

When he looked back at the Inquisitor, he found her watching him intently. She was always disinclined to agree with his more strident suggestions. If there was a peaceful option she would take it. A benevolent leader did not always know how or when to use force. The Inquisitor had to know when to extend an open hand and when to strike with a closed fist.

“We must do all we can to stop them,” she agreed quietly, clearly ill at ease. “It distresses me to do this to the wardens… even among my people they hold an honourable legacy.”

“We will see to the arrangements, Inquisitor,” Leliana said, signalling an end to the debriefing. “We shall reconvene in the morning to organise a plan of attack?”

The Inquisitor nodded, sighing into her chest.

The others rose and bowed in turn to the Inquisitor before following Leliana down the stairwell. Cullen would have joined them, had the Inquisitor not lifted a hand, gesturing him to wait. “A moment, Commander…”

Leliana glanced back at him inscrutably. “I’ll join you shortly, Sister,” he told the spymaster, who reluctantly gave them their privacy. Whether she shared Cassandra’s reservations or she merely disliked being left out of potential scheming, he did not know.

The Inquisitor waited until she heard the door of the solar click shut before rising from the chaise. “You don’t look well, Commander,” she said, concern pinching her brow. She moved to the fireplace where servants had left an iron kettle to simmer. “Would you like some tea?”

“Please,” he said, enjoying her quiet feminine grace as she gathered two clay cups and carefully sifted tea leaves into both. There was practised ease in her actions. Tea was clearly a staple of dalish ritual.

Satisfied that the tea had steeped for long enough, she handed him a cup and allowed his hands to brush hers. He was glad to see her icy fingers had warmed nicely. He continued to watch her admiringly as she retreated back to the chaise with her own cup.

He took a sip.

It was only by sheer force of will power that he did not immediately spit it out and throw the cup and all its contents in the fire. Schooling his expression into flat neutrality took some skill. Lavellan watched his face, her clever, dark eyes watching him with amusement.

“A dalish blend,” she explained to him.

“Flavourful,” he managed.

“An acquired taste,” she conceded. “But its health benefits are remarkable. You’ll feel ten years younger in ten minutes.”

Ten minutes of this drink would probably put him in an early grave. “Do I look so haggard?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” He forced himself to take another sip.

Lavellan observed him quietly for a moment. “I admit after our parting I was unsure if we remained friends. It seemed as if Cassandra had said some things to you that might have changed the way you saw me.”

“No. Only how I saw myself.”

She smiled vaguely, not really understanding what he meant. “Would you sit with me?”

It would be rude to refuse, he reasoned. He eased himself down on the chaise beside her, his leathers and armour creaking almost in protest of contact with such soft furnishings. Beside him the Inquisitor seemed unusually small. “How have your symptoms been?” she asked him quietly.

“Tolerable,” he told her. “Though I have been better.”

“Are you sleeping?”

Cullen glanced sideways at her. “You mustn’t worry yourself. You have more important matters to attend to-”

“So you haven’t been sleeping?” She sighed.

“It passes. It always passes.” He tried not to notice that the Inquisitor had reached out and was straightened the hem of his coat that had folded in on itself. Such casual familiarity made him ache - not with desire or simple lust, but for more moments when she might touch him as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

She moved on to tuck a loose curl behind his ear (he had not had the chance to tame his hair after the rain), then left her hand against his shoulder, resting there against his mane.

He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it just as quickly.

“You wish to say something?” she asked encouragingly.

He made a soft noise of restraint. “There are many things I wish to say to you. Many matters I would like to speak of, but…” But he didn’t know the words. He didn’t know how to explain the tumult that raged in his chest of his heart with his better judgement.

Lavellan withdrew her hand. “Your feelings have changed,” she said softly, looking to the fire.

“No,” he said quickly, catching her hand before it retreated from him forever. “Or - only in the sense that the longer I look at you the more I realise that what I felt for you a moment ago is a pale shadow of what I feel right now, and in a few moments more will probably be an even stronger feeling.”

Lavellan blinked at him, taken aback. Her cheeks were flushed with more colour than the heat of the fire alone could explain. “Oh,” was all she could say.

The confession was more taxing than a three hour training drill. Every word left him drained, as he fought against his most basic nature to repress his emotions. “I owe you so much, too much not to dedicate myself to being the best commander I can for you and the Inquisition. How I feel jeopardizes everything.”

A confused frown touched the Inquisitor’s expression. “Is this a human thing?” she wondered aloud.

“I-I… what?”

“Amongst the Dalish, to take as a lover the one you fight beside, whose life depends on you, and yours on them… it’s the most natural thing in the world. We believe we fight better when the one we love is beside us.”

“You speak of love…?” he whispered, not daring to believe it.

She met his gaze unwaveringly. “You do not?”

Was it love he felt? Or just infatuation? Lust? He wanted her companionship and her soft touches and smiles, but his desire for her body was too compelling, too consuming, and too much when she was sitting so close with nothing but that thin robe wrapped around her that could be so easily pulled off. She would let him. And his certainty that she would terrified him.

Lavellan rose from the chaise, her eyelids lowered enough to cast a shadow over her normally bright eyes. “Very well,” she said quietly. “If you tell me you need to defer our connection until after the Inquisition has achieved its goals, I will respect that, whatever the reasons may be. But if you think we will be more effective in our roles, I think you are being naive.”

Slipping from the chaise longue, he immediately went down on his knee and lowered his head. “I am your commander,” he said weakly. “That’s all I know how to be.”

Light fingers touched the top of his head, barely brushing his head. “Even your rejections are sweet…” she mused.

“I don’t have the will to reject you. You’ve cast a spell over me…”

The Inquisitor recoiled, stung. “I have done no such thing!”

Cullen caught her wrist. “Not a mage’s magic,” he told her. “A woman’s magic, maybe.”

He looked at the soft skin of her inner arm, smooth and flawless, pale enough to reveal the blue lines of her veins beneath. He couldn’t resist. Pulling her closer, he pressed his mouth to her wrist and kissed the point where her pulse was strongest. It leapt beneath the touch of his lips.

The Inquisitor’s fingers spasmed, as if she desired to touch him too. Then she suddenly tugged her hand free and stepped back towards the fire, hugging herself. “Just leave,” she said wearily. “I think you’ve made it quite plain that I am nothing but a distraction to you.”

If she had not pulled away, he would not have been able to. Dizzy with the intoxicating taste of her skin, Cullen rose. He muttered something he hoped sounded professionally apologetic and quickly left.

He did not see the way the Inquisitor’s face crumpled as he walked away, or how she pressed her fingers hard against her damp eyes.

In the tower’s walkway outside, Leliana was waiting for him. “Something I should know?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow at him.

“Not at all.” His impassive mask had been pulled into place, inscrutable enough to make an Orlesian noble jealous.

Leliana frowned, but there were bigger matters to attend to. “Come. We have much work to do.”

 

 


	7. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which dragons ruin everything.

**Aftermath**

  
  


“The right of annulment _must_ be invoked!”

Gregoir lifted a calming hand. “The situation is already under control. The mages are confined to their rooms. If there is any further corruption, we can handle it.”

“We thought as much before!” Cullen paced restlessly beside the meeting table. This room would once have been full to bursting with the senior enchanters, representatives of each college of magi, and the highest ranking templars. Now it was just Gregoir, himself, Irving and Carroll. “We do not have the numbers to control another outbreak! The mages must be put down.”

Gregoir’s cheek twitched as his jaw clenched. “It has already been decided.”

But Gregoir was a weak man, weakened further by circumstances. Cullen knew all he had to do was keep pushing and his resolve would crack. “Do you wish to be the one held responsible when demons break free of the tower and swarm the land?! We have the responsibility - the mandate - it must be done!”

The Knight-Commander’s eyes shifted to Irving, almost certainly looking for support. But the old mage had turned frail, thin, and confused as if his old age had finally caught up with him. He did not appear to even be attending the conversation. He might have been possessed. Cullen had suggested as much days ago, but that was where Gregoir had shown what little backbone he had - refusing in no uncertain terms Cullen’s request to have the old mage executed.

“We would have to go through the Denerim chantry. We cannot just enact the rite of annulment-”

“The Grand Cleric will grant it!”

Gregoir looked every bit like a man backed into a corner. “Warden Surana said-”

“Who cares what that woman said! She is a mage!” Cullen slammed a steel-encased fist against the table to punctuate his rage. “Of course her sympathies lie with her own kind! And what does she care for the tower - she has turned her back on us, yet we must obey her dictates? Since when does the Knight-Commander answer to a mage fresh from her Harrowing?!”

The door to the meeting room creaked open. A woman strode in - one of the few surviving senior mages. At once Cullen drew his sword and turned on her. “What are you doing out of your room, _mage_?!” he hissed.

Unphased by the sword pointed at her, she fixed him with a defiant stare. “The tower commandments state that mages and templars must be equally represented in meetings,” she told him in her clipped Rivaini accent. “I count two templars and only one mage in this room. The mages reserve the right to elect a second representative-”

“And you’re that representative?” Cullen whirled back to Gregoir. “See how they plot and scheme already?!”

“It is their right…” Gregoir said weakly.

“Indeed,” said the Rivaini mage, eyes burning into Cullen’s. Burning like the fires of a rage demon.

“I refuse to work with a creature that has almost certainly been tainted by demonic possession,” Cullen said through clenched teeth.

“And what if it is you who has been possessed!” countered the mage.

“Only mages have the weakness of will to be vulnerable to demon possession,” Cullen argued.

“And yet it was your templar brothers I watched who dragged us mages away, one by one, to be slaughtered and turned!” the Rivaini snarled, baring her teeth. “We did not survive this massacre only to be murdered by our ‘protectors’!”

“This massacre has revealed the true danger of mages!” Cullen flung a hand at her as he resumed pacing. “We were too lenient before. Now hundreds lie in graves and we bury still more! You cannot be blamed for your nature - just as a wolf cannot be blamed for theirs, but do not come to me speaking of us as ‘protectors’! We tried to protect you and see how you repaid us? We are your keepers now, and you should be grateful for your very lives!”

“We have obeyed the conditions you laid upon us!” said the mage. “You confined us to our rooms, and so we are confined! You forbid us from using magic, and so we do not use it! What more do we have to do - what else do we need to prove, for you to believe we are no threat! We want to rebuild. Just as you do!”

“Each mage must submit to the Litany of Adralla before I would trust one to even take a shit without an armed guard!” Cullen spat at her.

The mage’s hands clenched into fists. “Using the Litany on healthy people is one of the most painful things you can do to another human-”

“You would prefer death?” Cullen demanded.

Her face hardened. “If that is what it takes, Ser Knight…”

Irving lifted his grey head. “We do not have enough litanies for all the mages.”

“Then make more,” Cullen said simply. “And both you and…” His sullen gaze slid to the upstart mage.

“Mathilda,” she answered shortly.

“You both will be the first to submit yourselves. After which, you will create more litanies for the other mages - any who refuse to submit will be executed. Go back to your little coven and explain that to them, would you?” He paced in agitation, hands grinding together as his fevered gaze swung around the room, searching for danger that wasn’t there. “Tell them that there will be no more tolerance for any further testing of the boundaries. It would only take one letter to Denerim to give me the Maker’s blessing to put every one of your damnable heads on a spit. So go and be thankful!”

Mathilda’s face was thunderous, as she stooped into a mocking curtsey. “As you command, Ser Cullen.”

* * *

 

 

The grey wardens knew they were coming. The scouts had already reported that Adamant’s defences had been fortified and the battlements were lined with increased troops.

Cullen rode at the head of their army, dispensing orders to the leaders of each unit through messengers and keeping an eye on the blistering sun overhead. They would have to attack at night. Few of their soldiers were acclimatised to fighting in the midst of a desert heat, and though the temperature could plunge to almost freezing after the sun went down, his Frostback Mountain-trained men and women would be in their element.

Archers and mages on the left flank, providing cover fire. Footsoldiers protecting the siege machines in the centre. The runners on the right flank to swarm the walls. Excitement and bravado buoyed the ranks, but there was fear too. There had been only skirmishes so far. This was the first time the Inquisition marched as an army and there was no knowing what night would bring. Adamant had stood for an age against all manner of foes. But its defences had remained untested by modern warfare. Would it fall? Or would they end up dashed against its impenetrable dwarven walls.

At the head of it all rode the Inquisitor. Her armour had been cleaned to a fine shine, and it glinted like a beacon beneath the sun. She had a curious manner of riding, with one hand on the pommel of the saddle and the other extended out, holding the excess of the reins near her hip. She was a picture of grace, almost impossibly at ease in heat that had them all sweltering beneath their clothes. The Inquisitor’s face shone with perspiration, but it merely gave her a glow that served to enhance her preternatural airs.

Occasionally she would pull far enough ahead that she would bring her Halla to a stop and look back at the mass of humanity that followed, blanketing the yellow desert with with glittering metal. Whenever she did, her gaze would eventually come to a stop on Cullen. He knew not what thoughts passed through her head, or if she was even thinking of him at all. Her focus surprised him. She did not shy from her responsibility to each one of the people who followed her, and her face betrayed none of the reservations she held about her position that he knew she felt.

He refused to flatter himself and believe the dark look in her almond eyes was for him.

When Adamant lay no further than beyond the next rise, Cullen brought the forces to a halt and ordered the preparations to begin. There were still many hours until sunset. They would need the time to set up the sappers and organise the formations. Tents sprang up, nervous soldiers warmed their muscles with drills while more experienced fighters sought shade and sleep.

Cullen walked back and forth, checking everyone knew what they were doing, then checking again. There would be no room for error. Adamant was small and the wardens were few in number, but their ranks were filled with veterans and demons. The Inquisition’s forces outnumbered them only by a small margin.

When it remained that the Inquisitor was the only person he had not yet spoken to, he went in search and found her tracks leading away from the encampments. Over the dunes and up the craggy ridge, he found her standing at the top, staring out at the ancient fortress below her.

“You should not be standing in direct sight,” he warned her.

“They know we’re coming,” she replied. “They can look all they want, they can’t reach me. Not yet.”

“Some of Leliana’s agents have found an underground access to the fortress,” he told her. “Some remainder of an old siege most likely. It’s large enough for only a small force. You should take a few people and enter that way-”

“No,” said the Inquisitor, not taking her eyes off the fortress. “I cannot creep round the back. I must lead from the front.”

Cullen felt a prickle of unease. “You’ll be exposed. Every warden and demon in that place will be aiming for you the second they see you. You of all people need the element of surprise.”

“I, of all people, need to be seen standing with the Inquisition.”

He did not argue, as much as he wanted to. She was merely doing what she had been doing all along; facing the enemy and refusing to waver. He had not stopped her before in Haven, so he knew he could not - _should_ not stop her now. He needed to have faith in her.

Without faith, the Inquisition would be lost.

Cullen’s jaw locked as he turned and walked away, offering her only the final warning that the final approach would begin soon.

As the sun sank over the dune to the west, a shift came over the gathered soldiers. Power stirred, as a slumbering beast slowly awoke and many independent parts began to come together as one. Cullen’s attendants fitted him with his lion’s helm and his sharpened blade, and he strode from his tent and down the ranks of waiting men and women. Before the front line he prowled, as one by one the unit leaders reported their readiness. He looked at the faces before him and saw the determination, the fervent righteousness, and the absence of doubt.

Such was the power of faith. There would be people who died tonight for an idea that might not even be true.

Cullen thrust his sword into the air. _“Inquisition! Hear me!”_

His voice carried well, and silence fell upon the forces gathered before him.

 _“Tonight we will fight for Orlais - for Fereldan - for all the peoples of Thedas!”_ he roared to the attentive troops. _“Our victory is assured! The Maker and his Bride stand with us! Their Herald stands before us! Tomorrow the Inquisition will stand in His divine glory!”_

He roamed as he spoke, his voice unfaltering. _“The deep dark before dawn's first light seems eternal, but know that the sun always rises! Andraste guides her Herald!”_

His gaze fell upon the Inquisitor, who watched him with glittering eyes.

 _“She guides her,”_ he repeated, his voice falling to reverent whisper. “ _As she guides us.”_

He forced his eyes away from the Inquisitor and jabbed his sword again. “Inquisition! **Ready!”**

A unified cry went up, powerful and wordless. The banners surged in the air, and swords rattled against shields. The hairs on the back of his neck rose.

**“We march!”**

The drums began. Cullen turned and led the procession over the rise.

They marched to the beat, slowly and inexorably descending on the ancient fortress. They would be within range of the fortress’s trebuchets soon, but Cullen had already arranged for their own trebuchets to move ahead of the main force and flank the fortress to draw most of the fire. Their trebuchets could take down the walls if given time, but the grey wardens would destroy them first. Their best chance of penetrating the fort was the battering rams. Adamant’s ancient wooden doors would stand no chance.

Cullen walked to pace before the leading sapper. A volley of rocks sailed from over Adamant’s walls and struck the marching troop near his left. “Stay in formation!” he bellowed, as the surrounding men and women lost the rhythm of the march.

The moment they moved within common firing range, he raised his sword again. “Archers hold! Mages! Hold!” He heard Ser Rylen echo his orders some distance away.

He would have them clear the battlements as best they could before the ladders went up. But if they could hit the wardens then the wardens could certainly hit them too. The first showers of arrows began to rain down. Bodies dropped, and arrows clicked against shields and armour. Cullen raised his own shield and marched on without breaking his stride. The closer they came to the gates, the thicker the arrows fell. He felt them clatter against his shield and strike deep in the wooden battering ram beside him.

The rams boasted the fastest set-up time of all siege machines, and yet the final minutes were excruciatingly slow as they closed in on the gates and began to crank the beam into place. Rocks rained down from above. Mage spells flashed and exploded. Arrow continued to thud into the sand - into the battering ram - into the bodies of his men. Cullen ignored it, roaring only his encouragement.

One crash, and the doors crunched and screamed their protest. A second crash, and the telltale snap of the bracing beams on the other side sounded like music to his ears.

The third strike blew the doors clean down.

**“Charge!”**

Formation broke and the battle cries rose up. The Inquisition’s forces spilled through the gates, ready to meet whatever lay within.

A lithe body brushed past his. The Inquisitor strode after the first wave of soldiers, though she had yet to even take hold of her staff. She seemed so apart from the chaos around her, as if untouchable. Cullen actually believed that if an arrow struck her now it would simply fall to the ground.

“Inquisitor,” he called, bringing her to a halt. “You have your way in. We’ll keep the main forces occupied for as long as we can. You know what to do.”

“Keep the men safe,” she told him, her eyes solemn and dark.

“Keep yourself safe,” he retorted, and watched her flow through the torn gates as nimbly as water.

Cullen slipped back into command. He never enjoyed battle. Loathed it, in fact. Where some warriors took glory in war, Cullen despised it. In the heat of the moment he carried out his task with the precision of one detached, observing the field for changes and compensating where it was needed.

The enemy was too strong on the battlements. As long as they controlled the walls, they controlled the battle, and the ladders had not been as successful as he’d hoped. Cullen bellowed for three units to follow him through the gate. Their only way to taking the walls was to do so from within.

The battle was intense. Although the Inquisition had moved as fast as it could, the wardens had summoned a staggering number of demons. He moved at the head of the unit, cutting and blocking, channeling his templar abilities into neutralising the monsters who would stop them. He was not as strong as he had been on lyrium, but his abilities remained. It was enough to fight his way to the battlements and begin the laborious task of wresting the possessed grey wardens for control.

The first time doubt crept into his soul was when the bone-chilling shriek of the archdemon rose above the din. Great leathery wings soared above them. Cullen faltered.

It would be Haven all over again.

Many in the Inquisition seemed to have the same thought and there came a lull in the noises of battle.

Cullen rallied himself. “We have the upperhand!” he shouted, spurring his people to fight on. The certainty had deserted them. “Stay the course! Ignore the dragon!”

He fought on as the dragon wheeled and screeched. He saw it scorch a line of soldiers - both inquisition and wardens - on the far wall. The stench of burning flesh made him sick to his stomach.

But like before, the dragon was only after the Inquisitor. It could have razed his troops outside the Adamant’s walls and crushed them on the battlements, but it crawled about the walls of the inner tower, hunting and hissing, only one goal on its mind. Cullen tried not to imagine it succeeding.

Slowly, inch by inch, foot by foot, they took control of the walls. The more they won, the more reinforcements shimmied up the ladders to assist, and from his expanding vantage point he could see the battle raging throughout the fortress. The Inquisition was taking the most ground, but there were already so many bodies darkening the ground.

An arrow clipped the edge of his helmet, cracking his head to the side. The sloth demon he had been in the process of putting down saw its advantage and struck, tearing the shield from his arm. Another blow would probably tear the arm from his body.

A bolt of ice flew over his shoulder and hit the sloth demon square in the face. It shuddered and froze. It was all Cullen needed to regain balance and slash it in half with his sword, sending frozen chunks of ephemeral flesh cascading into the courtyard below.

Hawke jogged past him, staff braced on her shoulder. “That was close!” she told him.

“Hawke, thank you.” Not for the first time, he was glad Varric had finally brought the Champion on board. She was the kind of person who made combat look easy.

“I was in the neighbourhood,” she said with a shrug, looking around for her next target. She seemed relaxed in the midst of battle, so self assured with her own abilities that she almost looked bored.

“Go help the Inquisitor,” he told her. “She’ll need you.”

“I guess I’ll just follow the dragon,” Hawke said, her voice thick with irony. “I do love dragons.”

Cullen turned back to the task at hand. They nearly had control of the full length of the western battlement. When the last of the demons had been thrown from the parapets, Cullen ordered a handful of warriors to guard the stairs to prevent any more enemy reinforcements. He turned back to the swelling numbers of his own people filling the length of the wall. “Archers!” he shouted. “Into formation!”

Men and women armed with bows began to form a line, facing the courtyard below. On the eastern battlement, Cullen could see someone - the Inquisitor probably - had cleared the wall and a parallel line of archers and mages were taking their place and readying their weapons.

“Take aim!” Cullen shouted, pointing to the battles raging below them. “Largest targets! Do not fire unless you know you will not hit our own!”

Arrows began to spit. Bolstered by the support on the walls, the warriors below cut through the enemy lines faster, and soon Cullen thought for every demon he saw, it was outnumbered four to one. But there was a rift in the central cloisters, spewing up a new demon almost every time one fell. Even with the support of the archers, he saw his men were only just keeping up.

Another piercing shriek shook the very stone beneath their feet. Cullen nearly clapped his hands over his ears, the noise was so intense. So close. He looked about, wondering if the archdemon was seconds away from swooping down upon them.

He saw it.

The monstrous dragon had landed on what remained of the ancient bridge that had once spanned the blighted void. It was little more than a precarious platform overhanging an abyss so deep it was impossible to see the bottom.

From its jaws hung a body. Like a dog with a toy, it tossed it around before dropping it unceremoniously. It was more interested in the Inquisitor. He could see her. She looked so small at this distance, backing towards the edge of the abyss as the corrupted dragon advanced on her.

Cullen’s guts twisted in panic. “Archers!” he called, about to give the order to fire upon the fire-breathing abomination.

But he stopped. Arrows would do little beyond irritate it. At best it would ignore them, at worst… it would come for the archers and wipe them out in one breathe. The battle could be lost as easily as that.

The logical decision was clear, but every fibre of his being raged against inaction. Everything Cassandra had warned him about was coming true, unravelling before his eyes. The Inquisitor would die. And he had to let it happen.

In wretched rage he ordered his men to ignore the archdemon and focus only on suppressing the rift demons. He forced himself to look away too.

A terrific explosion shattered the night. Cullen whirled around, heart in his mouth. The archdemon was screaming - curling - falling into the abyss. Could it be so easy? Had she won? But to his horror, the bridge began to move; its remaining supports sliding away like dry sand. He could do nothing but stand and watch as the ground gave way beneath the Inquisitor’s feet and she fell.

Lavellan disappeared from sight so quickly and silently that he could not believe it. Not until the grief rolled through him like a delayed shockwave, so overpowering and black it physically rocked him. He hunched forward, unable to breathe. Winded.

Despairing shouts and cries went up around him. All those upon the battlements had seen the Inquisitor fall, and in seconds formation had broken. The soldiers looked ready to bolt or collapse. Many looked to him. With the Inquisitor gone, the Inquisition’s head had been cut off. All that remained was him.

He was thankful for the helmet. If his subordinates had seen his face right then they might have fled for sure. He turned in a slow circle, his body heavy, burning and numbed at the edges. “Don’t you dare give up now!” he snarled at them. “Do not make the Herald’s sacrifice an empty one!”

“Maker guide her to her rest,” muttered a man nearby, more to himself than to anyone. Then with grim determination, the soldiers returned to the fight. The heart was gone, however. Victory now would be empty.

“Fuck the Maker,” Cullen grunted, shoving his way to the stone steps leading down to the cloisters. “And to hell with His Bride.”

A wisp blocked his path. With one strike he cut it down, sending its essence scattering.

What was the point in sending them the perfect woman, only to take her away before she had even begun her work? Cullen seethed at the injustice. And like a man with nothing else to live for, he headed for the rift and threw himself into the slaughter.

 

* * *

 

 

“You cannot send me away - not now! Please!”

Knight-Commander Gregoir shook his head sympathetically and refused to meet his eye. The commander’s office was dark and cold, lit only by two stubby candles above his desk. Most of the tower’s supply stores had gone up in smoke and fire, including the stores of coal and candles. Fresh deliveries were out of the question. The darkspawn had moved so far north they now swarmed the roads between Lake Calenhad and South Reach, and if the merchant caravans weren’t destroyed by the blighted monsters then they were sacked by desperate Fereldan refugees and bandits.

They had been operating on rations for a while now. Food was low. The coal was almost gone. Evenings were darker than ever. Everyone in the tower was nearing their limit.

Gregoir had finally reached his.

“You cannot stay,” Gregoir said wearily. His face and grown thinner over the past few weeks, and lines had appeared where none had been before. “You’ve… you’ve gone beyond the pail this time, Cullen. I cannot help you.”

“They are plotting, Knight-Commander,” Cullen insisted, pacing relentlessly. “We already lack the manpower to effectively control them! If you send me away now, those animals will revolt!”

“They will revolt if you stay!” Gregoir’s voice rose in desperation. “I blame myself! I could see your mind had been touched, but there were so few of us left… I _had_ to overlook it.”

“There is nothing wrong with my mind!” Cullen said savagely. “It has been opened, and I see clearer now than I ever did! You! You’re nothing but a soft old fool who would watch the tower collapse around you because you’re too weak to take action! You need me-”

Gregoir lifted a finger towards him. “I need you gone.” He spoke steadily. “You are paranoid. You are delusional. Accusing the First Enchanter of helping Uldred - after all he went suffered! And after what you did to Mathilda… the mages will never forgive you.”

“The day I seek forgiveness from mages is the day I have gone truly mad,” Cullen sneered.

“You are already there, you just don’t see it yet,” said Gregoir.

With a feral growl, Cullen launched himself at the older templar, cracking his gauntleted fist across his jaw.

Gregoir reeled back, but for all his faults, he was not a physically weak man. He absorbed the next few blows, and when a brief opening came he recovered quickly. He seized Cullen about the throat and pushed him harm against the wall and kept him there.

“Look at yourself!” he pleaded to Cullen. “You have gone mad!”

Cullen struggled, scratching helplessly against the strong hands that held him in place. “You cannot send me away!” he raged, though his voice was close to breaking. “You cannot!”

“The transfer has already been arranged. Your escort will be here by the end of the week to take you to Greenfell.”

Cullen squeezed his eyes shut, slamming his fists against the wall. “Don’t send me away!” he begged. “Please!”

“This place is hurting you, boy.” Gregoir’s grip loosened, enough for Cullen to slide to his knees. “This is for your own good.”

“You don’t understand.” With shaking hands, Cullen clawed at his own face and hair. “I will die. I will surely die if I leave.”

“It is just paranoia, Cullen. It isn’t real.”

“They whisper at night - I can hear them! If I leave they will come for me! If I sleep, they will slit my throat - turn me into an abomination-”

“It isn’t real.” Gregoir repeated slowly.

Cullen pressed his nails so hard into his own scalp he felt the blood run free through his hair. It was nothing compared to the agony inside. The terrible fear. His throat choked with emotion and he gave a wretched sob. “Don’t send me away,” he pleaded in a whisper.

But Gregoir only turned away and moved back to his desk. “I should have helped you, Cullen. For the harm you have done, I take responsibility. But you must go.”

Cullen looked at at his commander. Through the water that blurred his eyes he saw not a templar… but a demon of sloth and inaction leaning over the desk. It was only for a moment. When Cullen blinked again he saw the knight-commander once more. Only now he knew the truth.

“You’re one of them. You’ve been possessed!” Cullen climbed unsteadily to his feet and reached to draw his sword -

It was gone. The Knight-Commander had asked him to leave it outside with the guards before he’d invited him into the office - now he knew why. “You traitor! You will die for this!”

Before he could move, the doors burst open and two templars surged in to seize him. They were probably possessed too. Cullen struggled, but they struck the back of his head and kicked behind his knees, battering him into submission.

“Take him to the cells,” said Gregoir. “Strip him of his armour and clothes - anything he might use to harm himself. Assign a guard to watch over him till Greenfell’s people arrive.”

Cullen did not go quietly. The halls and corridors of the tower filled with his screams and bellows of rage, until the dungeon door slammed behind him. Where, once again, Cullen found himself in a prison with only the figments of his mind to accompany him.

 

* * *

 

An Inquisition soldier was fighting a rage demon beneath the rift. It raked the man’s shields with its claws of lava and dodged his sword strikes like a flame dancing out of reach.

Without a word of warning, Cullen appeared behind the hopeless soldier and all but threw him out of the way and slashed at the smouldering demon.

It hissed at him, the same sound as water being poured over hot coals. He felt it look inside him, reaching through the fade to crawl through his soul… and whatever it found there, it was delighted. Between one moment and the next it swelled and grew, burning twice as hot and bright and moving twice as fast.

Good.

With an inarticulate shout he launched a flurry of blows against the beast, cutting and slashing and thrusting till it squealed. It lashed back. His cloak sizzled and the hair of his pouldrons curled. Cullen forced it back until one final thrust and twist put the fire out for good. He moved on to the next.

The rift above them would never be closed now. The one person who could have sealed it was dead, and now demons would spill out into the world indefinitely. It was a battle that could no longer be won.

He cut down a sloth demon as it began to manifest. He ripped the barrier from a shrieking, chattering despair demon and watched it fall to arrows. A possessed grey warden who had been holding off three Inquisition soldiers fell to his blade in seconds as Cullen aimed low, striking his legs hard enough to knock him down before slitting his throat.

He was vaguely aware that troops dashing over the battlements were all his own. The grey wardens still in control of their faculties had surrendered or had joined them. The fighting was dying down and Adamant was swarmed by Inquisition raiments. The only demons left now concentrated beneath the rift.

A warning shout went up. Another pride demon was beginning to manifest. Cullen saw the horns thrusting from a splinter of the rift, followed by a huge clawed arm that was intent in dragging the rest of its bulk forth from the Fade.

Fatigued, but no less determined, Cullen picked up a shield from a fallen grey warden and moved slowly to intercept it.

Ser Rylen’s hand was suddenly on his arm. “We have to pull back, Commander,” his second-in-command warned. “The fortress is ours… we could fight this rift forever and never beat it.”

Cullen nodded, not taking his eyes off the manifesting demon. “Order a retreat back to the encampment. I will stay with a small unit to keep the demons occupied.”

Rylen’s fingers tightened. “The commander of the Inquisition should not be demon fodder,” he said in a low, tight tone. “Go with the rest, I’ll stay and-”

“We’re finished, Rylen,” he said simply. “The Inquisition won’t survive without the Herald. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

He stepped beyond Rylen’s reach.

The pride demon roared as it stretched to its full height and flexed its powerful body. Cullen circled its bulk until he was stood directly before it. He had lost most of the armour plating on his left arm to a shade and the jaw of his lion’s helm had been partially ripped away, leaving the lower half of his face exposed.

Pride looked at Cullen and laughed, its many eyes flashing and blinking in mirth. It began to turn away from him.

Demons fed off the human soul. A rage demon fed off anger and hatred and grew stronger for it. The sloth demons always came for the ones who were the weariest. Despair demons sought out the most afraid; the newest recruits and those close to death. Pride demons likewise sought out bravado and confidence - the inordinate sense of self-importance. They fed off the boastful young bucks who thought they would live forever, and their strength swelled whenever they crushed one such specimen.

The pride demon looked into Cullen and saw nothing to feed its hunger. It cast about in search of a better meal.

Cullen struck.

His sword rebounded off its impossibly tough hide, but it was enough to force the demon to turn back to him. It swiped half heartedly at his head, but Cullen ducked out of the way. Arrows began to flit through the air, clicking against the demon’s back. Some lodging it the more tender spots around its throat and sides.

He knew all the demon’s weak points by heart. He had spent years studying such demons, and their physical forms held no surprises for him. With time and patience, a pride demon could be taken down. It was just a matter of taking care.

But Cullen had run out of carefulness. His movements were too bold. His strikes too ruthless. The demon’s weakness was its slow speed, and its blows were easily avoided by light footwork. Instead, Cullen met its blows with his shield, knocking its fists aside and displacing the force of the hits, all to remain as close as possible and strike fast. Each knock jarred him and left him aching.

When other soldiers tried to assist, he barked orders at them to focus on the other demons. If they all targeted the Pride demon, he reasoned to himself, then they would quickly be swarmed by the numerous other demons coming through constantly. A perfectly sensible reason, but possibly not the most honest one.

He jabbed his sword into a soft spot near the demon’s armpit. It yowled and grabbed for him, catching the borrowed shield and shattered it within its fist. Cullen staggered back and then quickly moved in for another strike. It reached for him… and he didn’t dodge.

Pride caught him by his robes and flung him hard across the courtyard. He hit the ground and rolled, unable to tell up from down till his body struck something hard - probably a wall. He groaned. If not for his helmet, his skull would probably have been smashed. But being tossed about in plate armour did not make for soft landings.

Shakily, he pushed himself upright. His vision had doubled, and when he looked up it was as if two pride demons marched inexorably towards him, preparing to crush him underfoot once and for all.

“Here - over here!”

Damn, foolish recruits. They lobbed stones and daggers at the demon, drawing its attention away from the fallen commander. Of course it worked; the testosterone-fueled idiots were exactly the kind of delicious snack the demon found irresistible. Pride forgot Cullen in a heartbeat and started for the younger soldiers who had quickly run out of ideas.

Pushing himself to his feet, Cullen ran at the demon. The world tipped dangerously as he did, signalling his brain had not quite regained its balance, but that did not stop him. He slashed at the back of the monster’s legs as hard as he could and heard its yowl as it fell to its knees. Without hesitation, Cullen discarded the sword and threw himself upon its back. He scrabbled up the sharp spines and scaly lumps of its toughened hide until he could wrap a bare hand around its fearsome horn.

Cullen pulled a dagger from his belt and drove it into the demon’s throat. Once. Twice. Again and again.

Pride staggered to its feet, screaming and reaching up to grab him. Cullen did not stop. He kept stabbing, punctuating each with a shout of unstoppable rage and grief, even as his arms shook with fatigue and he could hardly see straight.

He knew perfectly well that a pride demon could not be killed this way. He was only annoying it. It was the only thing he could do, and the only thing he had left within him, and so he did not stop. Could not stop.

“Something’s coming through the rift!”

Cullen barely heard the shouted warning. Other demons were beyond his caring now. He knew this one would probably be his last.

A telltale flash of green light sparked through the courtyard as something new manifested.

A moment later, the pride demon beneath Cullen sagged and dropped as if in a dead faint. It hit the slabs with a thunderous crash, forcing Cullen to roll quickly away before it sprawled atop him. He lay blinking at it, slow to comprehend what had happened. The soldiers were cheering. They were going mad with joy. What on earth had possessed them? He looked up and saw that the rift had closed - all that was left was the telltale crackling in the air where it had been.

And beneath it stood the Inquisitor.

Cullen’s heart did a funny thing then. The world went quiet. He could no longer hear the cheers and the whoops, or hear the Inquisitor when she began to speak. She looked haggard, pale, but alive. So impossibly alive. Her every movement burst with vitality and authority as she spoke to the remaining wardens and they heeded her unquestioningly.

She was godsent. There was no other explanation.

Rylen crouched beside him. The fool hadn’t left him at all, even when ordered. “Can you stand, sir?”

Cullen allowed himself to be helped up. He managed to stand unaided once on his feet, though Rylen hovered like anxious parent beside him. Noticing how Cullen looked off in the Inquisitor’s direction, he asked, “Do you need to speak to her, Commander?”

“No.” Cullen reached up beneath his helmet and wiped his wet cheek. “This is her moment. We should leave her be.”

Leaning on Rylen, they left the courtyard and made their way through Adamant, back to the broken gates and the encampment beyond.

Along the way, if the Commander of the Inquisition began to laugh to himself every now and then, Rylen wisely said nothing.

  
  
  
  
  
  



	8. Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which that dragon was probably a Cullen/Inquisitor shipper.

**Peace**

 

Templars in Greenfell did not wear armour. They did not carry swords or shields or patrol the village at night looking for brigands and apostates. If they left the chantry at all it was mostly to wander within the boundaries of the walled gardens in contemplation.

They wore the red and white habits of the ordinary chantry Brothers and spent their days in prayer. The only clue that they even retained their templar rank was when they returned to their room to take their dose of lyrium. In every other manner, it was as if they had never taken vows. Even their prefixed titles were dropped.

“Do you know why you are here, Cullen?” asked Revered Mother Rosaline. She sat on a pew in the chancel, eyes on the altar of Andraste. It was a small space, secluded from the rest of the chantry by a wooden screen. Normally this was where the choir sat and sang during the morning ministry, but now only Cullen and the revered mother occupied the serene space.

Except Cullen could not relax. “It’s a mistake,” he muttered, rubbing a point on the back of his left hand. “I do not belong here. This is a care home for lyrium addled old men and lunatics.”

“You are neither of these things,” said Rosaline.

Ten years later, Cullen would not be able to recall her face or her physical appearance; only that she was on the cusp of old age and often smelled of smoke and mint. She’d had a Nevarran accent… or was it from the Andals? What he remembered best was the gratitude he’d felt that she appeared to be one of the only one who didn’t believe him to be insane.

“I should be back at the circle,” he complained. “Maker knows what that fool Gregoir has let happen.”

“You are not fit for duty, Cullen. You must put it out of your mind.” Mother Rosaline told him firmly.

“I am fine,” he said shortly.

“As we speak, your fingers are twitching, your knee jumps, and you are looking around as if for an exit.” As soon as she pointed these things out, he made a conscious effort to stop. “Do you believe this is the behaviour of a well man?”

Cullen snorted dismissively. “There’s nothing wrong me.”

“If you wish to return to your duty, you must convince me of that first.”

It was a high order, considering deep down Cullen knew there was something deeply wrong with him. At night he woke, screaming - and those were the good nights. On the worst, he would wake far from his own bed, being restrained or sat on, usually by the other templars. There was something terribly wrong when even mental old templars who couldn’t remember their own names of the day of the week looked at _you_ with pity in their eyes.

The worst night by far was when he had awoken in the chantry to the sound of a Young Sister sobbing at his feet. He had recognised her as the shy one who had always smiled and blushed when she had met his eye during ministry or meals. Terrified he had finally done something unspeakable in the midst of his night madness, he’d thrown himself at the mercy of the Revered Mother - if she’d wanted his head, he would gladly have given it to her.

“You didn’t hurt the silly girl,” Rosaline said dismissively. “She should have fetched one of the older Sisters when she found you sleep walking. You shouted at her a bit, called her a foul temptress blood mage, and told her to leave you alone. She will get over it.”

“Oh.” He truly hoped it had been no more than that, but even so, it brought his true fear into startling clarity: he could not trust himself. His own mind and body were betraying him.

“Will you perhaps accept my help now?” Rosaline asked him.

When the only part of him that felt familiar was the Alamarri coin in his pocket, bequeathed by a lazy older brother, and even his face in the mirror seemed to belong to a stranger, Cullen knew if he didn’t accept, he would disappear completely.

 

* * *

 

By the dawn of the first light, the desert around Adamant was scattered with bonfires and pyres. The fighting was over but a new phase of the battle was just beginning: the aftermath. Bodies had to be collected and destroyed. The injured had to be pulled from the rubble and tended to. The missing had to be searched for. The living had to eat and rest. Cullen passed through the camp, overseeing the final stages of organisation. The remaining trebuchets had to be returned to the noble from whom they had borrowed them. A guard had to be allocated to the Tevinter mage at the root of this terrible mess, and sent ahead to Skyhold to await judgement and sentencing. Then reports had to be written for Josephine and Leliana. And all Cullen wanted to do was lay his head down and sleep.

“Yes, that will do,” he said wearily to a messenger who had brought a request from Rylen that the helmets of their fallen men and women be collected and brought home. It was unfeasible to transport all the bodies home in this desert heat. They would be rotten and flyblown long before they ever reached Skyhold.

“Surgeon Jennis suggests she take a look at your arm, Sir,” said the surgeon’s apprentice.

“It will keep.” He waved the boy away, ignoring how the reminder made the dull ache all the worse. The pride demon hadn’t broken anything when it had crushed his shield, but he’d almost certainly torn something. The arm dangled almost uselessly at his side.

As he finished delegating further searches of Adamant’s remains to another band of scouts, a hooded messenger approached him. “The Inquisitor wishes to see you.”

There was that flutter in his stomach, as if he was back to being a silly eighteen year old, instead of a blooded general in the flush of his greatest victory. He tempered the feeling and nodded. “Of course. Where is she?”

“With the Surgeon.”

The medic’s tent lay on the shaded side of Adamant’s broken walls. It was a quiet spot, with a soft breeze that cast a welcome relief from the rising sun. Cullen found the Inquisitor there, sitting on a piece of masonry as the surgeon patched something on her side. He tried not to notice that her upper body had been stripped until only some graying breast binding gave her modesty. He did this by looking at the sand at his feet.

“You wanted to see me, Inquisitor?”

She put a gentle hand on the surgeon’s arm, quietly dismissing her. Jennis picked up her supplies and moved past Cullen, but not without giving his arm an intensely critical look.

“I wanted to hear your thoughts on the battle,” the Inquisitor began, wincing as she slipped an arm into her vest. She tried to do the same with the other arm, but she stopped, frozen in a grimace of pain.

Modesty be damned, Cullen stepped forward to help. “I didn’t realise you were injured,” he said, scowling at his lack of observation skills. She had looked fine when she had come back through the rift.

“I didn’t realise either, until the adrenaline wore off.” She hissed as he eased her arm into her underclothes. “You are not entirely unscathed either.”

“A pulled muscle is all.” Probably.

The Inquisitor buttoned her vest and gestured to the masonry beside her. “Come sit with me.” There was plenty of room for him, with lots to spare so he did not have to be pressed against her side. “Tell me everything.”

This was the Inquisitor speaking - the woman who had won the grey wardens over even after leading the force that slaughtered so many of their order. The one who had told them that Andraste still had more for her to do, and so had sent her back from the Fade for a second time.

It was easy to talk to such a woman. He told her the facts, keeping them brief but clear. He did not mention the pain in his chest or how the red mist had descended when he’d seen her fall. He did not mention the tears he’d found on his face when he’d seen her returned to life.

As he spoke, he drank in the sight of her. He took careful note of the way wisps of her hair danced in the breeze and caught against her dry lips, and the way her pulse ticked away beneath her skin at the base of her throat. Her long lashes seemed to brush her cheeks when she blinked, and there was a patch of dry skin in the middle of her nose - a nose beginning to redden from the abuse of the sun. Everything about her sang ‘life’. So mundane and yet so precious. It was hard to believe he had nearly lost her only a few hours ago.

Finishing his verbal report to her, he couldn’t help but add, “It’s a miracle you made it back. Truly. Surviving the conclave was luck. Outliving Haven was providence. But this… is a miracle in every sense of the word.”

Bleak, dark eyes met his. “Please don’t look at me like that,” she said quietly.

“Like what?”

“Like you think I’m Andraste’s personal messenger.” She looked down at the sand, pushing her bare feet down into the grains. “It’s just propaganda. You know that.”

“We’re a little beyond that, don’t you think?” he asked, surprised. “I know you don’t believe in Andraste, but surely you believe _something_ is protecting you?”

“If anything protects me, it’s nothing greater than a simple Fade spirit, that’s all.” She sighed, and looked past him at the rest of the encampment. “People died here for a lie we told them. Stroud died because I asked him to. He didn’t even question it. That’s a more terrible power to have than anything this mark is capable of.”

She gazed at her left hand, though the Anchor was dormant and looked like little more than a faded green smear across her palm.

“You’re discovering what its like to command,” he observed. “It’s not easy.”

The Inquisitor looked at him with an expression he didn’t recognise. “You make it look so easy,” she whispered. “The way you rallied the men before battle… like you had no doubt they would follow your every word. You’re quite ferocious when you want to be.”

Was it fear she regarded him with? The way her cheeks coloured faintly seemed to imply that she didn’t find his ferociousness scary. More likely a little thrilling.

“I took command of Kirkwall after the city fell to the rebellion,” he said by way of explanation. “Whoever ruled the templars ruled the city - Meredith had set that precedent in the wake of the Viscount’s demise. After she went mad and got on Hawke’s bad side, it seemed like the whole world just suddenly fell on my shoulders. I found it difficult too. But it gets easier. Too easy, almost. Authority breeds authority, and once you have it… it _is_ scary to realise that you can order people to die for you, for no reason beyond you’re the last person of any significant rank who still happens to be alive.”

The Inquisitor’s eyes widened. “And you gave it all up for the Inquisition,” she said.

“You are only as good a leader as the people who support you. Kirkwall’s templar order was rotten with corruption, so yes, I’d rather be an advisor to the Inquisition than lead a dirty organisation.” He gave her a wan smile. “You can rest assured that I would never let you go mad with power. I am almost certain Cassandra employed me precisely because of my experience in bringing down power-mad superiors.”

That brought forth a breathy chuckle from the Inquisitor. And suddenly she was Lavellan again, with the honeyed grace and sweetness. “I knew I was fortunate to have you on my side,” she said. “I knew it before, but now I understand it. But you must promise me one thing...”

“Anything.” He would give her the sun, moon, and stars if she asked for them.

“If I fail,” she held up a hand to stop him from interrupting. “If my luck runs out or my divine protection expires and I fail… you must promise not to give up like you did last night.”

He went cold. “I never gave up. I ordered the men to keep fighting-”

“Yes, but you gave up on yourself.” He eyes looked into his, looking so deep and far inside him he felt uncomfortable. “Rylen told me everything. You tried to throw your life away.”

His gaze shifted to the ground. It was all the confirmation she needed.

“Silly man,” she said in her low, quiet voice. It wasn’t unkind, but there was a bite to her tone. “I’m not worth that much.”

“You are!” he exploded passionately, almost angrily. “You are worth that much and more. To me.”

She looked at him unhappily. After a moment she slid closer on the masonry and twisted to wrap her arms around his shoulders. “Then I can only promise I will try my best never to give you cause to be so _stupid_ ever again.”

It felt so right to be in her arms. All the noise in his head went away, and there was only Lavellan, with her softness and her warmth and the earthy scents of her body, all the more compelling for the sweat and surgeon’s oil that clung to her skin. His injured arm wrapped loosely around her middle. He cradled the back of her head with his other hand, and realised it would be very hard to let her go now.

“It’s my fault,” he whispered in her ear. “I could have given the order to shoot down the dragon. I could have saved you.”

Lavellan rubbed her nose into his furry mane. “You did what you had to,” she said. “It worked out in the end.”

“I nearly lost you.”

“You didn’t lose me.” Her arms tightened around him. “I'm right here.”

“Don’t ever leave me like that again,” he heard himself plead. “Maker - take everything I said before and throw it into the blighted depths of hell - I do not want to live if I can’t have you. You make me stronger. You drown out the lyrium song in my head. There is no time I have spent with you that I have not felt like a better man for it. I don’t care what anyone says or thinks. I would love you. If you let me.”

Lavallen drew back, just enough to see his face. This close, her normally dark eyes were revealed to be flecked with a myriad of colours, some he doubted there was a name for yet. Those eyes searched his face, looking for an answer to a question she did not voice. The cool tips of her fingers traced his cheek, rasping against the stubble of his jaw.

A faint, pained cough came from the corner of the tent a few metres away. Cullen wanted so much to ignore it, but he remembered belatedly that he was still in the middle of a battlefield. He swung his gaze to Rylen, who hovered awkwardly nearby, clearly disinclined to interrupt. But quite a queue had begun to form behind him.

“Your presence is required, Commander…” Rylen said quietly, as if speaking softly would be less intrusive.

Near his shoulder stood Hawke, who had far less patience. “I need to speak to you, Inquisitor,” she said, practically tapping her foot with impatience.

Lavellan slipped from his arms, and at once he felt their absence with a keenness he knew he would have to get used to. He had to share the Inquisitor was the rest of the world, and the rest of the world was greedy for her attention.

But just before Lavellan slipped on her Inquisitor’s mask, she squeezed his arm. “We will continue this later,” she promised, in her low, melodic voice which went some way to put him at ease.

Then she fell into step with Hawke and they were gone.

Cullen rose and departed with Rylen.

 

* * *

 

Meal times were the worst, but at least they weren’t uneventful. If it wasn’t old Jaspar wandering in naked, having forgotten how to put his clothes on, it was Stevenson ranting about how ‘fresh recruits’ these days were such a wet, useless lot still sucking on their mothers teats when they arrived for training.

Most of the Greenfell residents kept to themselves, in quiet despair and confusion. Families rarely visited. When Revered Mother Rosaline asked if Cullen would like to write to his own family, he lied and claimed they were all dead.

The last thing he wanted was for Mia to show up and see him in a place like this, keeping company with has-beens and lunatics. Better she assume him dead with all the others in the tower, and that would be her Truth. The preferable truth. He remembered the last letter he had written to her, sharing his fears that the Darkspawn would reach Honnleath, and urging her to move as far north as possible.

Had she moved? Had Honnleath - that damp, misty gap between rocks and bogs - been destroyed by the taint after all? Perhaps telling Rosaline that they were all dead hadn’t been a lie after all?

The templars were encouraged to return to their rooms in the afternoon, ostensibly to pray but also to take their lyrium dose. Rosaline’s regime differed from most circles - she preferred a dose be taken daily as opposed to weekly, though overall the amount prescribed was lower than what active templars consumed.

And each time Cullen sat before the altar in his room and looked at the small philter of lyrium in his hand, he thought of the addled loons in the rooms alongside his… and knew that even if he were to get out of Greenfell soon, he would be back one day.

When they weren’t in communion with the Maker, they were encouraged to stay active. There was a limit to how much most of the older templars could do, as their attention was limited and their hands shook with palsy. They couldn’t read anymore because they couldn’t remember the beginning of a sentence by the time they finished it. They couldn’t write their own name because they couldn’t remember it most days. Most of the time they sat around the chantry grounds telling the endlessly patient sisters all kinds of unlikely stories - most believing they were still healthy young men who were merely convalescing.

Rosaline didn’t like Cullen speaking to the Sisters. Some of them were young and had come to Greenfell as nurses rather than as clerics, and as such were not entirely committed to the life of chastity and virtue. Their heads could sometimes be too easily turned by a young, blond templar whom they thought they could ‘fix’. A harmless flirtation could prove to be a major setback, when something as simply as a pretty smile could make his chest feel like it was caught in a vice and he was staring down a Desire demon who would kiss him one minute and castrate him the next. Having extracted at least some idea of the kind of the tortures Cullen had endured at Kinloch Hold, Rosaline preferred him not to linger around the chantry where he might be drawn into conversations with well-meaning women, and strong encouraged him to spend his free time in the gardens.

There was a vegetable patch in one of the gardens, badly neglected and gone to seed. Few of the templars had the coordination to tend it anymore, and the Sisters were almost always busy tending to the templars.

“Why don’t you take it over?” suggested Rosaline to him one day, when he complained about what a mess the end garden was.

Cullen had spent nearly half his life training to be a noble warrior. Now he was handed a hoe and told to weed a garden like a common farmer. He had done it. It had been as liberating as it was infuriating, to savage the ground as mercilessly as a man attacking his mortal enemy, with no one to care or worry about his zeal.

It had taken days to clear the vegetable patch. After the first day, most of his anger had drained and he’d simply gotten on with the task, realising he was glad just to have something to do other than sit, pray, and wait for the nightmares. Upon completion of the task, Rosaline had commended him, but added. “You will have to start planting soon, or it will be too late spring.”

And so Cullen had been sent into town with an escort to buy seeds and bulbs and he had planted up the garden to satisfy Rosaline.

A few days later she had come to him once more. “Do you think plants look after themselves? The weeds are already returning. If you don’t remove them, they’ll strangle all your hard work.”

So he’d returned to the garden every few days to clear away the newest weeds, and watched the seeds he had planted slowly grow from tiny green specs into actual plants. He watered them during the dry spells - it wasn’t that much effort since he was already weeding them. When Rosaline advised him to thin out his new plants, he did so. Then he found some old willow canes leaning against the garden wall and used them to prop up the fastest growing plants that threatened to fall under their own weight.

He was actually annoyed one day to arrive in the garden to find vermin had nibbled several plants down to stubs.

“Set-backs are inevitable,” said Rosaline. “But you still have a good crop left.”

So he’d set up protective mesh around the patch and scattered strips of blanket from the bedding of several chantry mousers to scare of any intrepid rodents who thought to eat any more of his hard work.

At some point, without him noticing, he had begun to think more about the garden and what errands he needed to carry out for it next than he did about Kinloch and the mages. As he worked his hands grew steadier. His chest loosened. His eyes focused more on what he was doing than constantly sweeping his surroundings for enemies. Little noises didn’t make him jump so often. Smiles from the sisters didn’t make him quite so uneasy.

One day Mother Rosaline came to his garden to observe his work. “Very nice,” she said, touching the broad leaf of a runner bean. “You’ll be keeping us well fed this year, I feel. And this marrow will be a fine thing when its ready.”

It was around that time that Jaspar had one of his worst episodes. The evening meal had begun as usual, with each templar collecting their bowl of stew and potatoes and finding their seat at the tables. From the moment Cullen had entered, Old Jaspar had stared at him, fidgeting and muttering under his breath. This wasn’t unusual. Jaspar’s dementia had begun harmlessly enough, with forgetfulness and putting on too many clothes - or too few. But it had deepened to a more alarming madness that put the Sister’s at the wits end. Templars were strong. Even old, mad ones were a force to be reckoned with. When Jaspar didn’t want to change for bed, it now took a whole host of Sisters and Brothers to restrain him and minimise injuries.

Now, for whatever reason, his madness turned on Cullen. “Don’t you dare sit there!” he bellowed, when Cullen attempted to sit at the same table. “Filth! You sully this place with your presence!”

Cullen froze.

“You think we don’t know what you did!” Jaspar spat on the table. Drool flecked his chin. “They died because of you! You weak, cowardly shit! They should have hanged you! Instead they commended you - promoted you - but your rot still shows. It stinks the whole place up!”

A Sister hurried over. “Now, Ser Jasper, you’re getting food all over yourself-”

“Don’t fuss me and spare him! Do you know what he is?!” Jaspar violently shoved the Sister’s hand aside and surged to his feet. The other templars watched mutely, most too confused to understand what was going on. “Demon thrall! Shit! I will do what you are too cowardly to do, and kill you myself!”

He started for Cullen, but by then most of the Sisters had already spotted the trouble in the making. They wrestled the old templar back into his seat and distracted him with the promise of buttersugar puffs for dessert. Instantly transformed, Jaspar grinned like an excited child and wiped his chin.

Cullen, feeling ill, returned to his room.

That night he endured one of the worst nightmares he had ever experienced. His screams woke most of the dormitory, but he was not asleep. His waking guilt and shame was so overwhelming he thrashed and tore his bed sheets and rammed his bed frame against the door to prevent the Sisters from entering. They eventually gave up trying to reach him, one reasoning, “Well, as long as he’s still howling we know he hasn’t offed himself.”

The next morning, Rosaline found him in the vegetable garden, looking over what remained of his crop. Most of its lay shredded amidst broken canes and upturned earth. A culprit hoe dangled from Cullen’s hand.

Rosaline didn’t scold him, but she wanted to know why. So he had told her what he had never told another soul and would never repeat again for another ten years. He told her how the demon had tricked him with a pretty face, and he had broken the strictest protocol of containment and let down a barrier. He told her how he had been responsible for the deaths of every mage and templar on the floor below.

“You blame the mages for what happened,” Rosaline told him. “But it seems like its really yourself that you hold responsible.”

Surveying the remnants of the vegetable patch, she lifted a shredded cabbage and found the marrow plant beneath it was relatively unscathed. “Ah. So not all hope is lost just yet.”

Cullen didn’t know if he felt much better for telling Rosaline the truth. He feared she now viewed him with disgust but was rather good at hiding it, for all appearances she took his confession in her stride. “It is darkest before dawn, Cullen. We are nearly there,” was all she said.

Quite apologetically, Cullen cleared up the mess he’d made both in his room and in the vegetable patch. Some plants could still be saved and he concentrated his efforts on them, watering them carefully, feeding them when appropriate. The days were warming and spring was giving way to summer. The marrow Rosaline had so admired was growing well and close to ripening.

Then the summons had arrived. Rosaline called him her to her office with a trouble expression.

“I have here an order for your transfer to the circle in Kirkwall,” she said, showing him a letter. “It comes directly from Knight-Commander Meredith herself.”

“Kirkwall is a shithole,” said Cullen.

“Indeed,” said the Revered Mother. “Meredith seems to be reaching far and wide for new recruits. She has chosen you herself.”

“Why?”

Rosaline could only shrug. “She has gone beyond the usual means to secure you. She knew I could overrule her, so she has acquired the permission of no less than Grand Cleric Elthina. I have no means to block the transfer… unless you wish to remain here.”

“I…” Cullen hesitated. He’d heard stories about Kirkwall and it sounded like a truly repulsive place. “Is there no word from Knight-Commander Gregoir?”

Rosaline shook her head solemly. It seemed like his old commander had washed his hands of him. If Cullen was ever to leave Greenfell, this might be his only shot. “I could do good at Kirkwall,” he said. “Perhaps more than I could ever do in Ferelden.”

The Revered Mother appeared pained. “Do you believe you are ready for this?” she asked doubtfully.

“I cannot spend the rest of my life here,” he told her. “The life of a Brother is not for me.”

“What about your garden?” she asked him. “It’s so close to harvesting time.”

But Cullen made up his mind. Meredith wanted him, and whatever the reasons why, it was better to be wanted than decline in obscurity like a dirty secret. His armour was returned to him the very next day and the familiar weight felt more comfortable than he remembered. His hand no longer shook when it held his sword.

He left Greenfell with a determination to make a difference in his new home abroad. In his absence, the marrow withered on the vine, forgotten, and the vegetable garden fell to seed once more.

 

 

  



	9. Tranquility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone knows it's a fashion faux pas to turn up to a party all wearing the same outfit.

 

**Tranquility**

 

 

When Josephine found the Commander, it was not in a position she had expected - ankle deep in leaf litter, bending over the stone planters in the cloisters. “Commander?” she inquired politely, wondering if he was lost.

With a cough, Cullen stepped back, dusting soil from his fingers. “Can I help you?” he asked brusquely.

“Were you… weeding?” she asked, stepping back, in case the desire to muck around with dirt was contagious.

“It’s the Inquisitor’s hobby,” he grumbled. “She plants these damn things and then expects them to take care of themselves.”

“Well, she’s a busy woman,” Josephine said, still regarding him skeptically. “But since you _clearly_ have some free time on your hands, I would like your assistance.”

“Of course.”

Josephine cocked her quill at him and began walking in her typically clipped and speedy fashion towards the main hall. “As you know the Winter Ball is next week and we must begin preparations-”

“We only just returned from the blighted west,” he complained.

“This is equally important!” she retorted. “If the Empress dies, Orlais falls to chaos - Corypheus wins. This is just as important as any battle, Commander. I know you disapprove, but do at least make an effort not to scowl like this at the ball itself.”

He would make no such promise.

Josephine led him to one of the rooms off the upper library where Vivienne, Leliana, and a tailor with a portfolio full of sketches awaited him.

“We must choose our outfits,” said Josephine, with a light blazing in her eyes that he had not seen before. It was with near religious fervor that she gazed upon the catalogue of designs before her. Cullen looked to Leliana, expecting her to share his contempt for such superficial nonsense.

Instead he found her cooing over pages of shoes.

“Never underestimate the importance of fashion, Commander,” Vivienne warned him. “This is Monsieur Dupont - one of the finest tailors in Orlais who has been serving me faithfully for many years now.

The thin masked man ducked into a deep bow. For a master tailor,he was disarmingly ordinary looking, wearing nothing fancier than a brown jacket with an embroidered hem - very plain by Orlais standards, he was sure.

“Which outfit would you prefer, Commander?” Josephine asked him, drawing him over to a sheaf of papers showing male figured wearing a simply staggering array of outfits, most of which turned the wearer into some sort of sinister peacock. He pushed the papers around, but it only got worse. Headdresses longer than his arm. Diamond-patterned sleeves that trailed to the floor. Tights. Codpieces shaped like wolf head.

“Which is your cheapest?” Cullen asked the tailor.

“Commander!” whined Josephine.

With a sigh, the tailor opened a new portfolio he had been hiding under the desk. Only a few drawings lay within. Cullen tapped one. “That’ll do.”

“Ugh,” Leliana had mastered Cassandra’s disgusted sound.

“No, no,” said Vivienne forestalling any outrage. “I like it. Austere. Professional. In Orlais, soldiers are above the Game - to indulge in it is to appear lesser in the eyes of the court. This outfit says; ‘I turned up, what more do you want’. The Commander may prove to be very popular with the Nouveau minimalists-”

“Nouveau what?” Cullen scowled at her.

“Oh, a very fashionable new trend that scorns the extravagance and absurd embellishments of mainstream Orlesian fashion. They will sew only two hundred diamonds into their hair, not two thousand. They will love you, Commander. Also, red is very you.”

Josephine pursed her lips at the sketch, appraising the simple dress uniform with a greater appreciation. “Then perhaps we should wear the same. The Inquisitor as well-”

Vivienne slapped a hand down on top of the drawings. “I will pretend I did not hear that,” she said shortly, “For I’m certain the Lady Ambassador knows it is practically a crime in the Orlesian court to turn up wearing the same outfit as someone else. Besides which, the Inquisitor is not just a soldier, she is a religious icon - she cannot scorn the Game, she must win it.”

“What would you propose?” asked Leliana.

“Dupont!” Vivienne snapped her fingers at the tailor, who immediately drew out a sketch book. “We need something regal - bordering on religious! It must be inspired by Justinia herself. We cannot hide the nature of her race, so we must own it instead. Give me Dalish embellishments - we must remind people of the positive associations of elves - grace, beauty, wisdom. We cannot have people mistake her for a servant, do you understand? Green is too unfashionable right now - the rifts have seen to that. Go for autumn colours - golds, reds, auburns. White for divinity. Everything the Inquisitor represents must come together in this one outfit.”

Cullen was actually impressed. He’d thought fashion was simply a frivolous pursuit of those who had too much spare time on their hands, but he supposed there had to be a reason why Madame Vivienne had crawled her way up from being a lowly common-born mage in a Free-march circle, to becoming a key member of the Orlesian court.

Monsieur Dupont’s pen flew across the paper before him. When he was done, he turned it around to show them. Josephine made a sound like she had just seen a baby bunny.

Cullen scoffed. “And how is she supposed to fight in that?” he demanded. It was an undeniably beautiful dress, but it would be less so when its ridiculous skirts tangled the Inquisitor’s feet and that corset restricted her breathing. “You do all remember that we are attending this ball to intercept a Venatori plot to assassinate the empress? We are not there to dance.”

Dupont’s pen dashed across the paper again. When he showed them the new dress, it now had a giant slit up the side of the skirts.

Cullen groaned. “Maker’s breath.”

“No, no, no,” Vivienne shook her head. “That won’t do. We will have to work on this throughout the night if we have to, Dupont.”

“Shouldn’t the Inquisitor have some say in this?” he asked her.

Vivienne gave him a haughty look. “As we speak, the Inquisitor is running around Skyhold in beige underclothes. She will wear whatever she is given and be grateful I applied my best resources in service of her reputation.”

At that moment the Inquisitor was probably still entertaining visiting nobles. Now that word had gotten around the Inquisitor herself was attending the the Winter Ball, a stunning number of aristocrats had decided they wanted the honour of a pre-introduction. Arriving at a ball already acquainted with the guest of honour was an ambitious move by the veterans of the Game, and there had been no shortage of powerful Orlesian politicians who suddenly wished to visit Skyhold.

Josephine had turned down no one… and now the Inquisitor spent all her days with Orlesian prats.

The conversation she had promised to have with him had not transpired. Since returning from the Western Approach, they had simply been too busy. If he wasn’t occupied with the soldiers and making arrangements for the families of the fallen, Lavallen was occupied with a visitor or dealing with those they had taken prisoner after Adamant.

The morning war room meetings were tense. It was difficult to keep his mind on the job when all he wanted was a moment alone with the woman standing opposite, who watched him as intently as he watched her. It did not escape Leliana’s notice, and she was not above sly comments about how hot the room suddenly felt. Josephine, far less observant, kept asking him in private if the Inquisitor had annoyed him. Apparently his expressions ardency and irritation were very similar. Overall, he was mostly just frustrated. He could not be content with just the passing looks in the corridor, or the brush of her hand against his when he opened the war room door for her, followed by the inevitable mob of messengers outside who always had the most pressing matters which needed her immediate attention.

Like fog she kept slipping through his fingers.

It was a delight one evening when a faint knock had sounded at his office door, and the Inquisitor had eased herself inside, looking for all the world as if she was looking for a hiding place. “I managed to lose them,” she said. “I needed to speak to you.”

He rose from his desk, uncaring that he spilt a whole bottle of ink over the condolence letter he had been writing. “Of course,” he said eagerly. “What did you want to-”

Another knock sounded at the door. Cullen’s jaw locked. “I’m busy,” he called.

“A message from Sister Leliana,” called a disembodied voice.

“Not now-”

“A woman from Denerim is here at the gates. Sister Leliana said you would know who she is.”

All the simple joy he had felt at seeing the Inquisitor was dashed in a moment. He looked down at the ink slowly spreading across his desk and swallowed hard. “Thank you,” he called to the messenger. “I will be there shortly.”

When he raised his head, the Inquisitor was looking at him hopefully. “There’s always something, isn’t there?” she asked. “Can’t it wait?”

“I’m afraid it can’t, no.” He moved around the desk, feeling the weight of his past bearing down on his shoulders.

The Inquisitor was trying to hide her disappointment by looking down at her hands, her fingers twiddling nervously over her stomach. He paused next to her to lightly touch her arm. “Would you care to accompany me?” he asked heavily.

Her eyes darted up to his. “I wouldn’t wish to get in the way,” she said.

“You never get in the way,” he told her. “And I think… I think I should prefer your company on this one.”

“My, that’s a serious expression on your face.” When he showed no sign of amusement at her gentle teasing, her smile turned uncertain. “Lead the way, Commander.”

It was almost certainly a mistake. He descended the steps of his tower feeling like a man being torn in half. One side wished to usher her back into the tower and keep her from meeting the woman waiting at the gate below. The other half wanted to reach for her hand and never let go.

“Who are we meeting?” Lavellan asked. “An old friend of yours?”

“Not a friend, no.”

Dusk had descended on the fortress, leaving most of the courtyard thick with shadows. Light and noise blazed from the tavern and the main hall above, but the gate was quiet and dark. As Cullen approached he squinted. A figure in a heavy hood stood just inside Skyhold’s gate, an old grey nag resting its chin on her shoulder. The saddle was piled high with bags and folders, and judging by the wet hem of the woman’s cloak and skirts, she had walked through snow rather than ridden the old mare.

At the sound of his footsteps (for Lavellan’s feet moved across stone like silk across satin) the woman turned to him.

“Commander Cullen,” she greeted plainly, then turned her head to slowly take in the woman beside him. “And the Herald of Andraste? I have heard much about you in Denerim, Herald. There are songs dedicated to your deeds. It is a privilege to meet you.”

“Thank you…” The Inquisitor gave the woman a curious look, perhaps detecting that there was something not quite right in the way she spoke. Too flat. Too monotonous. Too lacking in normal emotional inflections.

“Inquisitor,” Cullen began fatalistically, “Allow me to introduce, Mathilda Varson, a former mage of the Ferelden circle.”

“Former?” The Inquisitor repeated in confusion, before comprehension dawned. “You’re Tranquil.”

“That I am.” Mathilda’s impassive eyes returned to Cullen. “Your Commander saw to that himself ten years ago.”

Cullen closed his eyes, feeling as if he’d absorbed a well deserved blow.

Quite unconcerned, Mathilda continued. “Is there somewhere for me to unpack? Your letter described that I would have my own room.”

“Of course,” he said thickly. “This way.”

He noticed that the Inquisitor did not follow.

 

* * *

 

 

Meredith was sensational. That much was clear the moment Cullen stepped into her office and laid eyes on the woman. Everything about her radiated power and intensity, from the way she held herself to the way she dressed - somewhat deliberately invocative of Andraste herself.

Cullen suddenly believed all the stories he’d been told; that this woman was the defacto leader of Kirkwall. Regardless of who was sitting in the Viscount’s chair, the crown only sat on his head because Meredith allowed it, because the last viscount to challenge Meredith’s templars had ended up in chains and stocks. Meredith was the kind of woman who exuded natural authority.

Cullen was terrified of her.

“I have read your file,” she said, bracing both hands on her desk, watching him with eyes of piercing blue. “It claimed you survived for three weeks in the company of a desire demon and resisted its attempts to possess you until you were rescued.”

Cullen clenched his fists in his lap to prevent her from seeing them tremble. “That is correct,” he said flatly.

“That is an uncommon fortitude. Desire demons are among the most powerful. Few veteran templars could have resisted for a day, let alone nearly a month.” She saw his eyes shift away and grunted. “I realise you take no pleasure in such praise. You lost many friends at the Ferelden circle, I understand. I always warned Gregoir his leniency would be his undoing one day… I regret he never heeded my advice.”

“The events of Kinloch Hold should never be repeated,” he managed to say, staring hard at the objects on her desk: ledgers, knives, letter openers, pieces of a broken mage staff.

“Absolutely.” Meredith rose to her full height and folded her arms behind her back as she began to walk around him. “Every day, refugees pour out of Ferelden into Kirkwall’s ports. This city’s walls groan with the sheer number of immigrants we have acquired, many of them mages and apostates, and just as desperate as the rest. And you know as well as I do the danger a _desperate_ mage can pose, don’t you, Ser Cullen?”

Images flashed behind his eyes of mages slashing in frenzy at their own wrists in search of just that little extra power to escape the massacre. Meredith saw something in his face that made her frown for a fraction of a second, before she moved smoothly on. “My templars and I have had not a moment’s rest, bringing in new mages and attempting to maintain control over the circle here. The Gallows is the largest circle in the Free Marches, Ser Cullen, yet our mage population is in danger of outgrowing it. I need more men and women like yourself to keep the mages in line and make sure we suffer no repeat of the events at Kinloch Hold.”

“I will do my utmost to serve and defend, Knight-Commander,” Cullen said.

“Good. I am promoting you to Knight-Lieutenant, effective immediately.” She moved back behind her desk.

“Th-Thank you.” Cullen stared at her in shock. He had not expected to be promoted for many years, if at all. Greenfell was not exactly a sterling credit to his career.

“This is not a kindness,” she told him, icy eyes boring into him. “Our work here is difficult. The mages are unruly. They will test you. I have many new recruits but few who understand that we are the thin line between order and chaos, fewer still who have seen exactly what that chaos looks like. You will be an example to the others.”

“I understand,” he said solemnly.

Meredith watched him silently for several seconds before nodding. “I think you will do well here, Lieutenant. You may be exactly what the circle needs right now. Beginning tomorrow you will report directly to me. For now, Knight-Captain Charlotte will show you around.”

A templar with wiry red hair nodded at him from the doorway. Sensing his dismissal, Cullen pressed his right fist over his heart in a Ferelden salute, which Meredith returned with the less formal Marcher version of inclining her head.

But before he could leave her presence entirely she called him back. “There is a rumour I have heard that does concern me,” she said, her voice as quiet and clipped as cracking ice. “Concerning you and a circle mage. You understand the rumour to which I refer?”

Cullen swallowed back a wave of revulsion that churned in his stomach. “A rumour,” he ground out. “Nothing more.”

His reaction did not escape the Knight-Commander, and she smiled faintly as she dismissed him with a final flick of her hand.

 

* * *

 

The final preparations for the ball had at last been stamped and sealed. The men had been chosen, the plans had been drawn up, the castle layout had been committed to memory, as had the name of every person of note who would be in attendance. In the morning they would leave, aiming to arrive in Halamshiral the day before the ball.

In the corner of his office the candle snapped three times, signalling the passing of another hour. Cullen’s last meeting with his subordinates had gone on longer than anticipated and now he found himself too tired to continue writing up the list of errands and advice he would be handing down to Rylen in his absence. It was almost certainly unnecessary. Rylen was not a _complete_ idiot, but micromanaging had served him well so far.

If he was sensible, he would pack it all in and go to sleep. It was well past midnight and even the tavern had gone quiet, a sure sign of how late it was. But the dreams had been bad lately and his feet itched.

Cullen folded away the note and went for a walk.

There was something pleasant about Skyhold at night-time. It was bitterly cold and windy, but there was also a lack of messengers and recruits tugging on his elbow every thirty seconds demanding his attention like needy children. He sighed and smiled faintly to himself. He would miss all those needy children when this was all over.

The only signs of life around the fortress was the nightwatch, patrolling the battlements and interior corridors. They all stopped and saluted Cullen when they passed him, and he nodded in return. Somehow in his wanderings he ended up in the throne room. The two guards stationed at the entrance of the Inquisitor’s solar looked at him curiously even as they offered the expected salute.

“The Inquisitor has retired?” he asked them.

“Yes, sir. Many hours ago.” One of the guards told him.

It seemed he would never find himself alone with her again. Cullen headed off, this time heading in the direction of the library.

Solas was nowhere to be seen, although many of his painting materials were still out and a new masterwork was in progress on the wall. Cullen thought he could see Adamant’s outline taking shape on the wall. The elf seemed intent to chronicle the Inquisitor’s exploits, but something about the fresco made him uneasy. There was only so much wall space. Her story would soon be over, it seemed.

Cullen ascended into the atrium library, wondering if a book might help occupy him going until the fatigue set in. But he was not the only night owl lurking in the library that night.

He should have known. The Tranquil did not seem to need as much sleep as everyone else. He caught sight of Helisma working away at her table with the single-minded focus only the Tranquil could obtain. A short distance from where he stood, Mathilda was scanning a bookcase intently.

Cullen didn’t want to talk to her. Everything within him rebelled at the idea. He could just walk right past her and she would not pay him any mind. That was the abominable nature of the Rite of Tranquility - that the very act of cruelty he had inflicted on her so many years ago rendered her uncaring of that same cruelty. He thought he would be grateful for her lack of ire, but when she glanced at him with blank, indifferent eyes, it tore at him more than if she would rage and scream.

He cleared his throat, forcing himself to speak. “How have you settled in?” he asked her.

“This library is lacking a comprehensive selection,” she said tonelessly.

“It’s new. We’re still in the process of updating, so if you have any requests for particular books, we can add it to requisition list.”

“I will do this.”

She turned back to the bookshelf, lapsing once more into silence as if she had forgotten he was there.

Cullen passed a hand over his face. Once upon a time, Mathilda had been a firebrand; merciless in her criticism, unafraid of his temper or madness. But he had been afraid of her. So afraid he’d dragged her away in the middle of the night and convinced a few of the other templars to help him perform the Rite. He’d convinced himself that she was communing with demons, whispering into Irving’s ear at meetings and manipulating the others into another rebellion.

He watched her now, and wondered how he was ever going to atone for that mistake. “Are you comfortable, Mathilda?” he asked her quietly.

Her hand paused on the spine of a book, as if about to select it, then it moved on. “My accommodations are more spacious than the ones in Denerim’s academy. Having my own room has its benefits. The Inquisitor has been very helpful and personally provided me with many research materials. I must thank her when I have the opportunity.”

There was no point asking if she was happy. That was an emotion beyond her reach now.

“Your invitation surprised me,” she said suddenly.

“Surprised?” he repeated uncertainly. Surely that was another emotion she could not feel.

“A figure of speech,” she corrected. “I did not expect it. After you left the circle in Ferelden I did not expect to ever hear from you again.”

“Would you have preferred that I not contact you?” he asked her, folding his arms tightly. Had he made a terrible mistake attempting to reach out to her?

She looked at him evenly. “I did not expect it,” she repeated. “However, your offer was generous. I saw no reason to decline it.”

“No reason at all?” He almost laughed, though it would have been utterly without humour.

“It is true I had concerns,” she told him. “I had no wish to be subjected to abuse, but I was reasonably certain that would not be the case. But I am curious why you invited me here. My dermatological research does not benefit the Inquisition a great deal.”

Cullen sat on the edge of an overburdened table and folded his arms tightly. “I wanted to know you were safe and cared for. It is… the least I can do.”

“Many people mistake tranquility for vulnerability. I was safe. I cared for myself. Your offer was unnecessary.” She took down a tome on nugs and looked at it thoughtfully. “Perhaps what you seek is my forgiveness?”

Her frankness was difficult to respond to. He was not used to being forced into such directness.“I wouldn’t presume to deserve it.”

“I do not know if I can offer it,” she said, turning to face him fully at last. “The woman I was in Kinloch might not ever forgive you. But I am not that woman anymore. I am myself. You are not that man you were either. That much is plain to see.”

“That doesn’t change what I did,” he whispered.

“Uldred changed you, twisted you into something you were not,” she said. “I remember you from before the circle fell. Many mages were fond of you and your kindness to us was well known. But Uldred remade you. What happened to me was his doing. You were a victim of the massacre, just as I was.”

“Do you honestly believe that?” he wondered.

She thought for a moment. “Not until I saw you in this place and saw how you had changed. You have healed, Commander, as is your right. And so I realise you were ill.”

Cullen shook his head. “If I could reverse what I did, I would. It’s not right that I should recover and you should remain this way.” He knew he should not say what came next, but he could not stop himself. “Seeker Pentaghast is setting up a research team into reversing Tranquility. It is possible, Mathilda. It’s only a matter of time before the reversal is made safe for mages.”

“I do not know if I should wish to return to the way I was,” she told him. “I am what I am. I accept this. So should you.”

After a long pause she cocked her head. “But I should like to join this research team. My research into nug biology is reaching completion. I will need a new project soon.”

“If that would please you…” he said slowly.

“I would be grateful.”

“I will put your name forward to Cassandra.”

“Thank you.”

Cullen didn’t know if he felt any better for having spoken to her. He was more confused than before at least. “If you need anything, Mathilda, you have only to ask.”

“Hm,” was all she said, before she returned to her work.

Infinitely more tired than before, Cullen quietly left the library and returned to his tower. He began the laborious task of removing his armor and locking his sword away in its chest, before crawling beneath the sheets and looking up at the stars through the gaps in his ceiling.

As so often happened when he was alone, his thoughts turned to the Inquisitor. Perhaps tomorrow they would have a chance to speak in private. Although, being on the road with an entourage of soldiers and attendants did not allow much opportunity to escape. Mathilda’s arrival seemed to have shocked her. She had already forgiven him for so much of this past, and he did not yet know if this was one final revelation that was too far for her.

Lavallen was a sweet, gentle woman. He knew that if she could not forgive him, then he certainly had no hope left.

Cullen rolled over and closed his eyes, preparing to face sleep.

Almost at once a knock sounded on the door below. “Wake up call!” shouted someone outside. “It’s time to prepare to leave for Halamshiral, sir!”

Cullen drew the blankets over his head. _“Maker’s balls…_ ” he whispered.

  
  



	10. Ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen fails to be unpopular.

**Ball**

 

  
  


Cullen may have _almost_ fallen off his horse once or twice. It came with being deeply sleep deprived. Every now and then he started awake to find the Inquisitor’s hand squeezing his arm, keeping him upright.

“Are we such tedious company, Commander?” asked Leliana from his other side.

“I think the Commander is rehearsing for the ball,” said Josephine. “Duke Saunier has developed narcolepsy - it is very fashionable now to be found slumped over the orderves at parties.”

He respected his colleagues. He really did. But sometimes he felt like he was right back in Honnleath being teased by his sisters.  “The sooner this _party_ is over with, the better,” he grumbled.

“Hush, now,” scolded Leliana. “The Inquisitor is excited. Don’t ruin this for her.”

Cullen glanced at Lavellan, who seemed quite at ease. “ _Are_ you excited, my lady?”

“Nervous is perhaps a better description,” she replied gently. “I’m eager to see what the height of human society looks like. I worry I’m going to do something terribly embarrassing without realising.”

Cullen scoffed. “Height of society? You’ll find more sophistication in a Kirkwall low-town tavern than you would at an Orlesian ball.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Josephine told the Inquisitor. “You will enjoy it - I know the Orlesian Court will adore you if you just be yourself.”

“She cannot be herself!” Leliana sighed in despair. “She has to play the game to be adored, and no one ever succeeded by being themselves.”

“I’m myself and I do alright... ” Josephine pouted.

“You are an adorable exception, Josie.” Leliana told her friend. “But I must warn you, Inquisitor, the court likes sharp wit and elegance but dislikes elves and foreigners. Above all, it despises foreign elves with elegance and sharp wit. This will be a social minefield.”

Cullen thought the Inquisitor looked very pale all of a sudden. “We will be there to assist you every step of the way,” he assured her, trying to fight back a yawn. “If all else fails I can jump in the punch bowl. Your reputation would look wonderful by comparison.”

“A truly fearless general is willing to make any sacrifice necessary,” Leliana said with a wonderfully noble expression.

The Inquisitor said nothing, but she smiled gently at them as if she was very grateful indeed. After a moment she looked at Cullen, and her smile dropped. “What are you doing?”

“Lashing myself to the saddle,” he explained, tightening the rope he had brought with him for such a contingency. Firmly secured to his seat, he rested his hands on the saddle pommel and let his head droop. “Wake me when we reach Halamshiral.”

“Your horse will walk off a cliff,” Josephine warned.

“Maker guide him,” he yawned, and proceeded to drop off.

It was a shame he fell asleep really, for he missed the way the Inquisitor kept stealing glances at his relaxed profile, or the comments his colleagues made.

“Aw, he looks so innocent, I could pinch his cheeks,” Josephine whispered.

“I think the Commander could cause a lot of trouble at this ball,” said Leliana.

“How so?” asked the Inquisitor.

“Handsome men usually do. And the commander can be quite attractive when he stops scowling.”

“I-I suppose so. I hadn’t noticed.”

“There will be debutante tears by bedtime, I guarantee it,” Josephine hummed happily.

The first day of the journey was spent descending through the mountain paths of the Frostbacks, and with each passing hour the air grew warmer and more temperate. By the time they made camp for the night, the snow was far behind them and the first green flush of the Dales lay ahead.

Cullen caught the Inquisitor standing at the edge of the camp, looking out over the valleys and distant forests they would soon be crossing. “We may come across some of your people here,” he told her. “Having you with us will hopefully diffuse tensions.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” she said mildly. “Most clans keep to themselves, but those who would war with humans are not always pleased to see their own kind keeping company with ‘shems’. I’m afraid some Dalish would view me as a traitor to the People.”

She turned to look at him, then seemed to suddenly realise they were alone. Her posture changed at once. Was she… nervous? The way she compulsively tucked a hair behind her ear betrayed her.

“I wanted to speak to you,” he began softly. “When Mathilda arrived… I didn’t mean to… you seemed alarmed.”

“I was,” she confessed.

“I told you I had done things in Kinloch Hold I was not proud of - things I can never atone for-”

“But you’re trying,” she interrupted. “That’s all that matters. I’ve spoken to Mathilda myself. We talked about you, actually.”

He should have known. The Inquisitor seemed to make it her personal responsibility to speak to everyone who served in the Inquisition, from the highest noble to the lowliest servant. It was exactly the sort of behaviour that would not please an Orlesian court.

“She wanted to know what kind of man you are,” Lavellan continued.

“What did you tell her?”

“The truth.” She looked furtively up at him and then away again. “She seemed satisfied that you had changed, and I don’t think she would have stayed if she didn’t believe that. Tranquil are just as wilful as anyone else, you know.”

Cullen closed his eyes and took a step towards her. “Inquisitor, I-”

“Inquisitor,” Leliana interrupted softly. “We need to go over some details for tomorrow. There is much etiquette you still need to learn.”

Despite Cullen’s stolid glare, Leliana ignored him.

“Of course,” the Inquisitor sighed. “Perhaps another time, Commander.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was not easy adjusting to the Kirkwall circle. It was larger than the one he’d left behind in Ferelden, with a more diverse population. Kirkwall was a mixing pot as far as cities went, and the mages in the Gallows reflected that as well as anywhere. He counted Fereldan refugees, Dalish cast-outs, Orlesian mages, apprentices from each one of the Free Marcher states and even some Rivani seers.

The mood was markedly different than the one he remembered in Kinloch. Before everything had turned to chaos, the Fereldan circle had reminded him of an academy. The Gallows merely reminded him of a prison.

Mages did not laugh and relax in their spare time. They hurried from place to place with their eyes down and their shoulders hunched and rarely loitered in public. There were no mages like Surana - flirtatious and chatty with the templars as if they might be friends.

Most noticeably, he had never seen so many templars in one place. In Kinloch the mages had outnumbered the templars ten to one. Here, it was more like two to one. The courtyards and corridors were thick with patrolling templars.

He also noticed there were more… women.

There had been female templars in Ferelden but only a handful. He had always assumed that for women entering into the chantry’s service, choosing the path of the Sister with its greater powers and higher rewards was simply more appealing. Why be a templar, whose highest rank was still subordinate to the lowest Revered Mother, when you could be a Sister and rise all the way to becoming Divine one day?

Perhaps it was Meredith’s influence, but for the first time, Cullen found himself working alongside as many women as he did men.

It was Knight-Captain Charlotte - or Lottie to her friends - who kept his head above water in the first few months of his new home. Mostly they spent their time patrolling outside the Gallows, ostensibly looking for apostate mages and hunting down rumours of blood magic. There was no shortage of the latter. The people of Kirkwall only had to see them coming down the street to scuttle forth and mention that they had heard strange, demonic noises coming from their neighbour’s house. Most of the time such rumours were nonsense, but Meredith had decreed that no stone could be left unturned. Just one loose mage could wreak untold havoc.

He spent his down time with Lottie. They were partners on the street, and after one too many ales at someone’s birthday party, they had become partners in bed too. He hadn’t really planned on it. He’d gone along with it at first mostly because he felt he should, and had found that attraction to the other person was not strictly necessary for something as simple as sex. Lottie was pleasant enough, though distant, and was everything Surana was not. She did not demand much from him except his occasional willingness to slink into a storage room with her and get down on his knees.

Eventually she had been reassigned to another part of the Gallows and he saw her less and less until the only time her saw her at all was when they passed in the corridors, where they would nod at each other like colleagues who were somewhat acquainted. Cullen was reassigned too. Meredith rather liked his way of dealing with the mages. His blunt, cold aggression was effective and intimidating and she set him to training the newest recruits and putting the fear of the Maker into the newest mage arrivals.

Mostly she kept him by her side; a privileged position shared only by a few others.The first time she invited him to accompany her to the Harrowing chamber to deal with a blood mage, he knew he had met with her approval. “I’d like to hear your thoughts on the matter,” she said, as she showed him into the chamber. It was deep underground on the lowest level of the Gallows, far from the light and noise above.

It was a test of sorts. A young elven girl sat sobbing in the middle of the square chamber, clutching her arms around her legs. Cullen ignored the unwanted stab of pity. The scars of recent blood magic covered her wrists.

Already awaiting them was Knight-Lieutenant Alrik. “I caught the girl attempting to escape. She tried to use blood magic on me, as you can see.”

The girl gasped and sobbed, looking to Cullen and Meredith for mercy. “It’s not true, it’s not true,” she whispered repeatedly.

“You deny using blood magic?” Meredith asked her coldly.

The girl hesitated. “I did. But he’s lying. I wasn’t trying to escape the circle. I was just… he… I was trying to get away.”

“Spare us your deceitful tongue,” Alrik interrupted in a bored tone. “Your sins are all over your skin. You are corrupt. Blood magic is punishable by death.”

The girl wouldn’t look at Alrik. “It’s not true, I didn’t…”

Meredith looked to Cullen with a raised eyebrow. “What say you?” she asked.

He shook his head. “That she used blood magic is not in dispute it seems. The judgement is clear enough… we must adhere to the rules,” he said quietly.

“Oh, please, no,” the girl whimpered. “Please, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to do it - I was desperate. He was too strong, I couldn’t get away, please don’t…”

“Blood magic carries a death sentence, but I shall be lenient given your age.” Meredith gestured to Alrik. “Take her. Perform the Rite of Tranquility. She can keep her life.”

“No!” The girl tried to flee as Alrik seized her by the arm and wrenched her to her feet. “I had to do it! He tried to rape me! I had to get away! You have to believe me - please!”

Alrik cracked his fist against her cheek, hard enough to send her sprawling back to the floor. “Silence! We’ll hear no more of your vile lies!” The girl was too stunned to rise again. As Alrik dragged her away, Meredith stepped into Cullen’s line of sight, blocking his view.

“It is not comfortable to watch,” she said, noticing his uneasiness. “But the girl is a blood mage. You know what they are capable of. You have seen it. A girl like that would say anything to save her own skin.”

He nodded numbly.

“We cannot give an inch - they will take a mile if we allow them even a moment’s reprieve for misplace pity,” she said, clasping her hand to his shoulder. “My sister was a mage. I once let myself pity her… I made excuses for her and covered up her nature. She turned one day, possesed by a demon. Scores of people died because of her - because of the inherent weakness in the nature of mages. If I had been stronger, I could have stopped her. I could have saved her, even. Do you not feel the same way about Kinloch Hold?”

Cullen swallowed and squeezed his eyes shut. Too often he’d tormented himself with ‘what ifs’. What if he had paid closer attention to Uldred and his cronies? What if Gregoir had acted sooner to take Uldred down? What if he himself had the strength of will and presence of mind to force the issue himself? All those lives that had been lost… if he’d just been a little harder, a little less trusting, they might still be walking around today.

“We cannot allow ourselves to be weak anymore, Ser Cullen,” she said, releasing her grip on his shoulder. He hadn’t realised until that moment that she had been squeezing tight enough to hurt. “I have a job for you…”

 

* * *

 

“Ser Cullen Stanton Rutherford of Honnleath, Commander of the Forces of the Inquisition, and former Knight-Commander of Kirkwall.”

Cullen strode forward with the other advisors, feeling as if a million glittering and predatory eyes followed their every movement from behind passive masks of gold and silver. He was beginning to regret the dress uniform. It was tight and pinched in the neck. But then he was beginning to regret a whole lot of things, including coming to this damned ball, and all the life choices leading up to this moment, including the time he had approached a templar in his village and asked him what the flaming sword on his armour stood for.

Something about the shape of the ballroom… yes, it reminded him of the old Imperium amphitheatres where the first Andrastians had been thrown to the lions for entertainment. The empress presided over all, striking a remarkable resemblance to a peacock with her blue gown, yet managing to have the most understated wardrobe in the entire room.

“Grand Duke Gaspard,” called the court marshal behind him.

Gaspard had the look of a man who had picked his own outfit and frankly didn’t give a shit. Cullen could respect that. The duke clearly resented the Game and showed his insolence with mismatched pauldrons and wearing last season’s colours. And as soon as that thought crossed his mind, Cullen realised he’d spent far too much time with Vivienne.

“Smile, Commander,” Josephine whispered out the corner of her mouth as she rustled past him in what looked like a slightly more elaborate version of the dress she normally wore.

The court marshal cleared his throat one final time. “And the Lady Inquisitor Lavellan,  . Vanquisher of the Rebel Mages of Ferelden, Crusher of the Vile Apostates of the Mage Underground. Champion of the Blessed Andraste Herself.”

Cullen glanced distractedly behind him at the marshal. He would have to make a point of finding whoever had come up with those titles. They made her sound like a damned tyrant….

Any further thoughts died a sudden death as the Inquisitor stepped into view.

Vivienne and her tailor had spent most of the week slaving over that outfit, and according to Leliana, adjustments were still being made right up until an hour ago. The whole thing had annoyed him. Venatori agents were loose and all anyone could think about was hemlines.

Now he realised every agonised moment spent crafting the outfit - every carefully place pin and stitch - had been worth it. A kind of hushed reverance fell over the guests and onlookers as the Inquisitor descended the stairs. Her grace that marked her as a fleet-footed child of the forest was right at home in an Orlesian ballroom and everything came together perfectly.

The bustle and full skirt had been discarded in favour mail leggings and long coat tails that offered the freedom of movement she needed while still suggesting something formal. The colours echoed the Divine’s robes, but the patterns spoke to her Dalish heritage. But what caught most of his approval - though he would never admit it aloud - were the flashes of bare skin. To hell with utility and layers of meaning embedded in fabric; as the Inquisitor moved, he glimpsed a tantalising flash of bare thigh where her mail leggings ended. Why had Vivienne let that little piece of design through? Did she not have a care for his duty? How was he supposed to keep his mind on assassins when the Inquisitor looked like that?

Once their announcements were done, they were free to begin working the room. One of the trickier rules of the Game was that introductions could only be made by mutual acquaintances. To simply walk up to a stranger and say hello would result in a sullen stare and a cold shoulder, then total societal ostracisation and the forfeiture of all your land and titles. That kind of behaviour was unconscionably rude. But if a third person who had already been introduced to both parties were to step in and make the introductions, it would be smiles all round. The whole thing made Cullen’s head ache, though that might have just been the lyrium withdrawal beginning to kick in as it usually did when he missed the power and confidence the substance could have given him in situations like these.

The only benefit, he thought, was that he knew nobody. Thus, nobody could introduce him to anyone else. He would be free to move about, keeping an eye on suspicious characters and potential entries of attack. He didn’t like how the Empress hung around the balcony  at the head of the ballroom. Enemies could easily strike from outside, drop from the roof or shimmy up the ivy on the walls. He would have to locate one of his people and direct some of their agents to cover the exterior.

Leliana’s voice behind him caused him to turn. “Commander Cullen, allow me to introduce the Countess Mana of Anise. These are her three daughters, Marina, Belle, and Cynthia, and her sons, Pierre and Serge.”

Cullen throttled a sigh. How had forgotten that between Leliana and Josephine, they almost certainly were familiar with every guest in attendance? And neither of them were inclined to allow him to be anti-social.

“A pleasure,” Cullen bowed, and when he lifted his head again he noticed Leliana had already disappeared, abandoning him to the overmade ladies and gentlemen before him. One of the daughters snapped open a fan and tittered behind it. Did he have something on his face.

“It is an honour to meet you, Commander,” Countess Mana. “Is this your first ball?”

Josephine had already walked him through the protocols of conversation. Next she would ask him what he thought of the decorations and the standard of catering, and he might ask if she and her family were enjoying themselves and remark on the quality of their masks.

“But,” Josephine had warned him with all the severity of someone discussing a matter of life and death, “Should a woman begin directing your attention to one of her daughters - perhaps mentioning offhand that this is her ‘first season’ - get out. Get out while you can.”

After the regimented exchange of pleasantries, the countess now looked to one of her daughters. “Our lovely Belle is finally Out. Her dance card is sure to be full before the first song… the gentleman here will have to be quick to add their name, don’t you think, Ser Cullen?”

“I do, my Lady.” He scanned the room and affected the look of someone who had just seen A Very Important Thing that needed his attention. “If you’ll excuse me, there is something I must attend to. It was a pleasure meeting you all.”

He waded through the crowd, eager to get lost in it. Somewhere nearby a theatrical gasp went up and there was a crash, as if someone had dropped a platter. No doubt a Scandal was taking place. Cullen would have thought no more of it if a madly giggling blonde thing did not suddenly try to streak past him.

He caught her arm. “Sera,” he said, in his best most unconvincingly polite tone. “What are you doing?”

“Socialising,” she replied with a grin. “I am a social butterfly. Fart on one side of the room, cause a hurricane on the other. Problem?”

Where to begin. “Can you behave yourself for one night?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at her.

Sera looked genuinely offended. “But I am! I haven’t even thrown a greased pheasant at the empress yet. That is _restraint_ , Cully Wully. Of course, if I did that, everyone might start wearing birds on their barnets thinking its a fashion statement. Daft tossers.”

He sighed and let her go. He would never win against Sera. “Just stay out of trouble.”

“I always do!” She disappeared into the crowd, no doubt to cause more scandals. Cullen had no idea why the Inquisitor had invited her along, other than that Lavellan had a surprisingly mischievous sense of humour sometimes.

He glanced about, looking for the woman in question, but the swarm of guests was too thick to see much. The only person he recognised was Josephine, who seemed to be conversing with a young woman who was no doubt her own sister. He deduced as much because he had never seen her look so evidently exasperated and speak so irritably to a strange in all the time he’d known her.

“Yvette, how much did that dress cost?”

“How much did _yours_ cost, Josephine?”  

“I am employed. I am allowed to buy dresses.”

Cullen arrived beside them. “Where is the Inquisitor?” he asked Josephine.

“She was here a moment ago…I think she’s trying to mingle, but she’s not very good at it.”

Her sister was now peering at Cullen. “Josephine, who is this?” she asked sweetly.

The ambassador rounded on her sister. “Yvette, no. Don’t even think about it.”

“You don’t know what I am thinking,” Yvette pouted.

“You are so obvious, even the empress can see what you’re thinking.” Josephine looked back to Cullen. “I think I saw some suspicious characters by the buffet tables. Perhaps you should go over there?”

She was sending him away. That was fine by him. He left the sisters to the low-key argument and continued patrolling the crowd, keeping an eye out for the Inquisitor. She may have looked the part, but she was still out of her element. He needed to be at hand in case she needed anything.

A tap on his shoulder.

Leliana smiled at him. “Commander Cullen,” she began. “Allow me to introduce Baron Wassi, Count Gaul, and Baron Haine.”

Oblivious to his glare she left once more, probably to go fetch the next round of toffs to bother him with. “A pleasure,” Cullen bowed, a little impatiently.

“Impeccable manners and fashion for a Ferelden,” said one of the men - he had forgotten their names immediately.

“They do breed them… thewy, over there, don’t they? Mm.”

Cullen suddenly wondered if this was what the nug felt like when it was circled by three wolves.

“Have you tried the champaigne, Commander?” asked the third man.

“No, I-”

“You should. It is very heady and you look like you need to relax.”

“I’m here as the Herald’s general, I really should not imbibe-”

“That’s just no fun,” said one of the men, drawing an arm around his shoulder. “Come, try the _petite mort_ -”

“The what?” He didn’t know a lot of orlesian slang, but he knew what _that_ meant.

“They are chocolates, Commander. They are _divine_.”

Somewhere above and orchestra struck up the first warning notes that a dance was about to begin. Cullen made his profuse excuses and slipped away through the crowd that now began to thin as couples headed to the dance floor and others less interested in dancing began moving to other parts of the palace.

He spotted Vivienne holding court amongst several enthralled young men and women near the buffet table. She was in her element. Some ways behind her was Solas, keeping to the edges of the room, more successful in his efforts to remain apart from the proceedings than Cullen had been so far. Even so, the elf seemed to be enjoying himself.

The crowds moved. He saw a flash of white and red. Lavellan was standing at the balustrade, looking down at the dancers on the floor below. She seemed quite transfixed.

Cullen made his way to her side. She looked up at him, her mask doing nothing to disguise her. It covered up the tattoos on her face but there were more, he realised, trailing down her arms, peeking through those terrible gaps in her clothes.

“Seen anything interesting?” she asked him.

“Not at all.” He leaned on the wooden rail, almost certainly too close to her. He could already imagine the gossip spreading around the room.

“Everything is so… _much_ here,” Lavellan said, her gaze roaming the room. “So much food, and no one’s eating it. There’s a woman over there whose skirts could provide enough material to cloth a whole family.” She looked down at the gilt balustrade she rested her hands on. “And I think this is actual gold.”

“I know. It’s obscene.”

“It’s wonderful.”

He glanced at her, surprised. “You like it?”

She bit her lip as she looked at him. “Even dalish children grow up hearing stories about human fairytales. Princes, Princesses, balls, banquets, dancing… I wasn’t sure it would be anything like I imagined, but it is. It’s more than I ever imagined. I feel like a princess.”

“You look like a princess,” he said. She was easily the most beautiful woman in the room, certain biases aside.

Lavellan laughed. “I know its silly. I could get quite carried away here.”

“How have you been getting along with people?” he asked her.

Here, her smile slipped a little. “I don’t think Leliana’s etiquette lessons have done much good. I forgot the introduction thing and greeted a duke. He said ‘little rabbits should be seen and not heard’. Then when I asked a servant for their name, they gave me such a glare. I can’t seem to put a foot right.”

Cullen made a sympathetic noise. “Winning respect from players of the Game is like diving into a mud puddle in an attempt to impress frogs. It’s just not worth the success.”

“I suppose. I should just leave it to you, Leliana and Josephine to build our reputation tonight. You seem capable enough.”

“Leliana and Josephine are old hats at this,” he said. “I’m as lost as you though, frankly.”

“Commander.” She slanted him a coy look. “Half the women in this room are staring at you right now. And nearly as many men too.”

He looked around sharply, but saw no faces turned his way. “Do not tease me…” he huffed.

“I’m not teasing you. They know better than to be caught.”

Cullen couldn’t decide if she was up to mischief again. She looked away from him and back to the dancers, tapping her fingers in time to to the music. “Dalish don’t dance, did you know that?”

“Now I know that’s not true,” he said. “I’ve heard how you danced on the tables after Iron Bull got you drunk.”

“Varric’s exaggeration. I fell off the stool, nothing more.” She batted her eyelashes at him, pleading her innocence. “Although I suppose it’s true - we do dance. But we dance to worship, or to entertain others and tell stories. We don’t dance like this, I mean. Men and women holding each other, moving together in rhythm, all entwined. It’s very… intimate.”

“Mm.” His face heated to think of other situations where entwined bodies might move together in rhythm.

“I don’t know why you humans always have a go at us for our supposed lascivious dancing beneath full moons, when you’re all doing this… sanctioned public groping.”

A smirk twisted his lips. “Have we scandalised you?”

“Beyond words!” She looked at him, and affected a new candid tone. “Would you care to dance?”

She was on fine form tonight. If the Orlesian court couldn’t love this woman even half as much as he did, there was something deeply wrong with them all. He chuckled but shook his head. “Not well. It would be less humiliating to actually jump into the punch bowl after all.” He saw the look in her eyes and added, “Don’t pout at me, you just told me you have no idea how to dance either.”

“We could make up our own steps.”

“Perhaps… later,” he said. The knowing look she gave him made him a little hot under the collar.

“Later, then.” Her gaze moved past him. Someone was approaching and Cullen had a good feeling he knew who-

“Commander Cullen,” said Leliana. “Allow me to introduce the Duke and Duchess of Toulouise and their daughter, Lady Hanna.”

“I will leave you to your work,” the Inquisitor whispered, and slipped away through the crowd… taking his good mood with her.

Cullen turned to the nobles and bowed. “A pleasure.”

The evening started to get a little stranger after that. If he saw the Inquisitor again, it was usually as she was zipping around, trying to look as if she wasn’t running. She was up to something, but it was difficult to ask her what, now that Leliana had foisted a mountain of new acquaintances upon his person. He didn’t know what the spymaster’s game was. He suspected she was either escaping unwanted conversations by dumping them on him, or she was just feeling particularly mean that evening.

Cullen had so far had his hair touched three times by debutantes, his arms squeezed by randy dowagers at least twice, and his bottom pinched more times than he cared to count. At least one fellow had backed him against the wall and leered at him for a good ten minutes before Dorian, taking pity on him, had intercepted and sent the man packing. But then Dorian had been unable to pass up the opportunity to leer at him too.

He’d tried to escape to the garden at one point, stepping behind the arcade near the fountain where no one could see him. It was only for a moment. There was still serious work to do, but he just needed a few minutes where he didn’t feel like a piece of meat. Unfortunately, the Lady Hanna had followed him and taken his seclusion to mean he was inviting her to be seduced behind the wisteria.

Of course, when Lady Hanna’s fiancé had seen him rapidly emerging from darkened corners with the girl in hot pursuit, he had taken exception.

While the inquisitor battled venatori spies and assassins in the servants quarters, Cullen was called out in the garden. This was fine by Cullen, who at that point was itching for an excuse to stick a sword into something. It was almost a shame that Josephine stepped in and managed to cool down the enraged Lord and convince him that he was simply mistaken.

The challenge was withdrawn and the Orlesian court, sighing in bitter disappointment, returned to the party.

“No more introductions,” he hissed at Leliana.

“But you’re proving so popular,” she said with a shrug.

Cullen had stationed himself by the wall, folded his arms, and assumed the expression of a man who intended to murder the next person who spoke to him. Unfortunately, this could also be interpreted as ‘dark’ and ‘brooding’. It did nothing to dampen his popularity.

“Excuse me.” Three heavily armoured chevaliers approached him. “You are Commander Cullen of the Inquisition?”

“Yes…”

“The Inquisitor said you we should talk to you…” It turned out they had heard rumours of the Inquisitions exploits and wanted to know if they were true, and so the Inquisitor had directed them to him. Cullen almost laughed in their faces. Here were three fools who didn’t know when they were being distracted from their duty.

Not long after, a slight elven woman had come up to him. “Commander Cullen? Ambassador Briala just tried to have me murdered - the Inquisitor said if I agreed to testify, you would keep me safe?”

Someone was being a busy bee, he thought. He called over some of his own soldiers masquerading as nobles and listened to the woman’s story of her ordeal in the royal apartments and the Inquisitor’s rescue.

Soon after her came a chevalier in rather few too many clothes, and the ones he were wearing provided very inadequate coverage. “Commander Cullen?” the man hissed behind his hand. “The Inquisitor sent me to you… I have information on the Empress.”

“Do you need protection?” Cullen asked him vaguely.

“Just some clothes would be nice, thank you.”

Cullen was growing quite concerned by the time a third man approached him with a thick central Ferelden accent. “You Commander Cullen? Your boss lady said I should have a word with you. That Gaspard fellow - pretty sure him and his sister are planning to murder the Empress. Any minute now if you ask me.”

“Maker’s blood!” Cullen muttered under his breath. He began to hunt through the crowd and found Leliana. As always, she seemed to know more than him.

“The Empress is about to give her speech,” she said. “If the Inquisitor doesn’t get here soon, we may have to step in ourselves.”

“Or just let the assassination happen,” he suggested darkly. “There are worse things that a strong military leader taking over Orlais right now.”

Leliana frowned but didn’t disagree. “Are your people in place?” she asked.

“As many as could be smuggled in without raising suspicion,” he said. “It may not be enough.”

The gong tolled on time, signalling for the guests to move back into the ball room. The empress would make her speech at any moment, and the Inquisitor was nowhere to be seen.

“Cullen!”

It was not often that she used his name. He might have stopped to appreciate it had the Inquisitor not been barrelling along the red carpet towards him, looking a little worse for wear. Was that blood on her dress? She stopped before him, putting a hand on his chest to steady herself. “Where’ve you been?” he demanded. “The speech is about to-”

“Florianne just tried to kill me,” she panted.

His eyes widened in alarm. “Are you alright-?”

“It’s fine.” She waved off his concern, still trying to catch her breath. “Just got turned around. Couldn’t find my way back. We have to stop her. Quickly. Take your men. Arrest her, please. She’s the assassin.”

“R-right away,” he stammered, not at all certain he understood what was going on, but there was no time. He hurried away, signalling to his men to move towards the dais where the Empress was waiting to begin her speech. Florianne and Gaspard had already entered and were making their way towards her as well.

Something caught his eye. A woman on the dancefloor had just shucked something from her sleeve. Something sharp and made of steel. If she wasn’t one of his own people then who…?

“Florianne!” The Inquisitor’s shout went up. A scandalised hush fell over the room as a sudden commotion broke out on the dais. The duchess had spooked, mere feet away from the empress. Inquisition soldiers rushed in, but Cullen could only watch in anguish as they were cut down and the Duchess took flight. The Inquisitor was fast on her heels.

Pandemonium broke out in the ballroom.

 

* * *

 

 

“We should be helping,” Cullen breathed, watching the fires burn higher, turning the night’s sky a deep, sickly orange. The Gallows lay apart from the rest of Kirkwall, safe on its little island in the bay. Safe from the massacre being carried out across the water.

In the courtyard below, on duty templars lined parapets to watch the destruction. Under curfew, the mages could only watch from the windows of their dormitories. From Meredith’s office in the tower, Cullen could see them all. And no one was doing anything.

Meredith’s tranquil assistant stood vacantly near the desk. “There’s nothing we can do,” she droned. “Knight-Commander Meredith’s orders were clear.”

“A small task force isn’t enough to stop this. It’s a massacre, Elsa,” Cullen whispered. “The city guard are no match for the Qunari, and Meredith can’t stop this with just a few mages and templars! We are Kirkwall’s only organised military, we _should_ be mobilising-”

“We cannot abandon our stations, Ser Cullen. Meredith believes the mages will rebel if the templars allow themselves to be distracted.”

“And if Meredith dies along with everyone else tonight?” he ground out.

“You will be Knight-Commander,” Elsa said simply.

“Commander of a burning pile of corpses!” he snarled. “This doesn’t make sense! We can spare the people - we could help. But she won’t allow it. Why?”

Elsa stared blankly at the wall. “She sees an opportunity.”

Cullen’s head snapped around to look at the Tranquil woman. “What opportunity? What are you talking about?”

But Elsa would say no more. “Our orders were clear.” And with nary a care for the burning world beyond the bay, she returned to her paperwork.

It was a long night, and Cullen prayed to Andraste several times that tomorrow he would not find himself saddled with the rank of Knight-Commander. When he saw Meredith’s ferry returning in the early hours of the morning he could have cried out with relief. She was alive and well, but also furious.

“The viscount is dead. His son is dead. The city guard is decimated,” she seethed in the privacy of her office. “At least the Qunari have been driven out, for all the good it has done us. This… Hawke. You have had dealings with her. Why did you never mention that she was a mage?!”

“I did not realise,” Cullen lied.

Lying to Meredith was becoming an unfortunate habit these days. He disliked it, but there were certain things he had begun to realise she took too far. He’d known Hawke was a mage since the moment they’d met - the woman was as subtle as a sledgehammer about her magic. But aside from the fact that attempting to bring her into the circle would simply result in a lot of dead templars, Hawke had assisted him too many times for him to repay her by throwing her into chains. Perhaps once upon a time he would have had no qualms about bringing her forcibly into the circle. Meredith’s ever tightening restrictions on the mages, however, had convinced him go increasingly soft to compensate - at least on the mages he knew posed no danger. Better a mage stay on the outside, using their power responsibly, than be forced into the circle and exposed to the poisonous hatred that seeped through the ranks of the circle mages.

It had not escaped his notice that the circle could turn good people bad. That a baker who had only ever used his magic to sweeten his pies for thirty years before being brought to the Gallows could be turned, in the space of one year’s captivity, into a blood-mage with an all-consuming hatred for templars.

Only, Meredith did not notice or care for that distinction. Baker or blood mage, they were all the same to her, with equal potential for danger. Mages needed supervision, he knew that. But Meredith’s deepening paranoia was beginning to turn simple supervision into oppression. If she had learned Hawke was a mage, no reason in the world would have prevented her from bringing the woman in.

Her rage now was because Hawke had become Kirkwall’s darling overnight. To throw her into the Gallows now would have the rest of Kirkwall baying for their blood.

It was then that Cullen began to suspect the real truth behind Meredith’s orders during the massacre. Kirkwall was without a government, leader, and militia. The only force left with a hierarchy of power were the templars whose inaction had left them utterly unscathed. There was no opposition left to Meredith taking the reins of power into her own hands at last. She had intended to cement that by taking credit for ending the Qunari rampage herself, only Hawke and swept in at the last moment…

Perhaps it was for the best. Kirkwall needed strong leadership, and Cullen had known no stronger than Meredith. But…

Why did he feel so dirty for going along with it?

 

* * *

 

“Six dead,” said the soldier, “Three wounded. The Duchess Florianne herself critically injured two of our own, but they’re being treated now and the healer says they are stable. We thought Duke Saunier had had it too, but it turns out he had just fallen asleep beside the roasted swan. He’s fine now.”

“It could have been much worse,” Cullen sighed, wiping his borrowed blade on a napkin. “Tell the others they’ve done well. They can retire for the night. It seems the palace’s guards are finally ready to take the danger seriously, so we won’t be needed.”

“Very good, sir.”

Cullen looked around the ballroom and shook his head in amazement. Guests were returning to the party while servants were still discreetly mopping up the bloodstains. The party would go on. The deaths of six nobles and an assassination attempt on the Empress was simply a new topic of conversation.

The Inquisitor may not have come away with the hearts of the Orlesians in her pocket, but in one evening she had forced a resolution to the civil war which had been raging for months. Gaspard would be executed for treason and Celine would rein unopposed. She had given a lovely little speech on the subject, speaking of compromise and commitment to progression. Cullen would have preferred a few more comments about annihilating Corypheus, but he would take his victories as they came.

“Where’s the Inquisitor?” he asked Leliana, who was wandering past with a flute of champagne in her hand. She was decidedly off duty now.

“The balcony,” she directed him with a nod. “Speaking to Celine’s ‘arcane adviser’.”

With a baffling little laugh, she continued on. Cullen rarely heard the spymaster laugh and he wasn’t sure he liked the sound of this one.

In the gallery above, the orchestra began to strum a new waltz.

“For the love of…” Cullen gave another exasperated groan and headed for the balcony. As he approached, a woman in red velvet stepped through the doors, sauntering past him. Cullen gave her a sideways look… she seemed awfully familiar, but right then his mind was on the Inquisitor.

On the balcony outside she was leaning despondently on the balustrade, chin in her palm.

“I wondered where you’d gotten to,” he said, running a hand over her shoulder. “Are you alright?”

She patted his hand and gave a half-hearted smile. “I will be.”

“Not living up to your fairytale fantasies anymore?” he wondered.

She leaned back to face him. “In the stories, the clock strikes midnight and the magic ends. The beautiful princess turns back into a dirty servant elf, and the handsome shemlen prince wants nothing more to do with her.” Lavellan wrinkled her nose. “Tonight’s not so bad by comparison. Did you at least have fun?”

He thought darkly of the unwanted touches, innuendos and leers, and nearly being forced into a duel over a silly teenage girl. “Honestly,” he said. “I’m enjoying myself more right now than I have all night.”

“A damning indictment of her Imperial Majesty’s party, if you’re having more fun with a gloomy elf outside.” The Inquisitor blew out a soft sigh. “I’m so very tired of politics, Cullen.”

Not for the first time, Cullen was amazed that such narrow shoulders could bear the weight of all the responsibilities they forced on her. Her thoughts seemed to be running along a similar path, as she opened her left palm and gazed at the Anchor’s mark; the reason for everything.

His only purpose in life, he knew, was to help her with those burdens. He’d never been so sure of anything. Beneath Gregoir he had just been part of the rank and file, beneath Rosaline he had been an invalid, and beneath Meredith he had laboured with doubt right up until the end. With the Inquisitor, the clarity of his purpose was like coming home; a feeling he hadn’t truly felt since leaving Honnleath as a thirteen year old boy.

Wherever Lavellan went was where he belonged. Whatever she faced was his burden too. He reached out to rub a fleck of dried blood from behind her ear, and then let his hand stroke down her back, trying to ease the tension he felt there. It seemed to work. Her shoulders dropped and she turned into him, effectively entering into the circle of his arm. Between the warm light from the ballroom and the cold light of the moon above, she appeared to have two aspects: the silk and ice of the Inquisitor, and the honey and velvet of Lavellan.

The tempo of the music drifting from the ballroom changed. He had tuned it out, as he usually did with the rest of the world when the Inquisitor was around, but now the soft, slow pace of the music reminded him of something.

“Would the Inquisitor care to dance?” he asked.

Her eyebrows twitched up. “Wouldn’t you rather jump into a punch bowl?” she retorted.

“No,” he said plainly, and waited for her real response.

“I…” She looked around, as if about to give herself over to some public display of indecency and she wanted to be sure no one was watching. It was quite endearing. “Alright.”

Cullen took her hand, as if she was indeed the princess of her own story, and led her into the middle of the balcony. Lavellan watched his face intently as he guided her other hand onto his shoulder and then settled his own against the small of her back.

Despite his protestations, he had been to enough balls and social functions in Kirkwall to know the basics. Meredith had always received invitations to the viscount’s parties, and when she couldn’t attend, she would send Cullen in her stead. He had never danced himself, but a lifetime of training his body to fight had instilled in him the ability to deconstruct movements and replicate them… whether it was a defensive strike or a dance move.

There would be no fancy pirouettes or dips, but he knew enough to know the basic steps. He moved slowly at first, taking the lead and showing her the way. Lavellan was nothing if not a fast learner, and within moments she caught the rhythm and was moving in synchrony. She smiled, warmth darkening her cheeks as they turned in a slow circle. Cullen felt himself smile in response.

“I like your dress,” he said.

Lavellan squashed a laugh. “I can tell,” she said. “In the ballroom you kept looking at my legs.”

“They are worthy legs,” he said.

“And my… how did Leliana say it… _décolletage_?”

“I assume that means to ‘meet your eyes respectfully’?” Wishing to quickly change the subject he said, “This could be the longest we have been alone without interruption.”

“Hush,” she urged. “If you say that, someone will definitely come.”

He took her by surprised by stepping back and coaxing her into a spin beneath his raised arm. She froze in cluelessness at first, before laughing as she stumbled along with his guidance and quickly returned into his arms, perhaps a little closer than before, holding tight as if he was teaching her to swim and to let go would cause her to sink.

Cullen began to appreciate why the simple act of dancing so scandalised the Inquisitor. It was difficult to retain pure thoughts, when her front pressed so intimately against his, and when he could feel the curve of her hip beneath his hand. Her scent surrounded him. There were the perfumes and oils that Vivienne had told her to bathe in, but they blended with her original smell. Her true smell. Orlesians had another word for that: _cassolette_. Though like most orlesian idioms it held deeply sexual connotations. So he tried not to think about that.

He’d noticed that her smile had faded now. When she looked up at him there was no twinkle of amusement in her eye, or embarrassment about how close they stood. Her eyes had darkened, her lids had lowered, and she watched him with an intensity that had his pulse ticking faster than their languid movements could explain.

The next time he twirled her, she was ready. The tails of her dress coat fanned out as she gracefully spun, and when their bodies met once more, he was done for. He had forgotten how to move. He just held her, their noses almost touching, her mouth so close he could have kissed her if he bowed his head.

A voice drifted through the open doorways. “Where is the Inquisitor? We must thank her for dealing with that oaf, Gaspard. Is that her over there?”

Lavellan stiffened.

“No, no, that’s just a waitress,” said another voice.

“All these little rabbits look alike.”

Cullen’s jaw clenched and he release a low sigh, but Lavellan seemed unperturbed. “I suppose I can’t hide forever,” she said. “I’d better return.”

His hands tightened on her. “No.”

He’d waited too long to have her alone and he was already moments away from losing what little common sense he had left and entering the realm of madness where pushing her against the ivy-covered wall and lifting her skirts seemed like a good idea.

“Go to my room,” she whispered against his lips. “Wait for me there.”

She eased out of his reach and stepped through the doors. Gone. His heart pounded in her absence. His hand curled on the air where she’d been, then dropped to his side. He felt as if the whole world swayed.

After the moment had passed he slowly made his way back into the ballroom. He moved between the shifting crowds. Josephine was sitting with an arm wrapped around her sister; the night’s detour into murder and mayhem seemed to have upset the younger Montilyet. Conversely, Leliana had come alive. He could hear her explosive laughter at something an arch-duke was whispering in her ear all the way across the room. Dorian had found some admirers in a group of young nobles who had warmed up to the idea of a Tevinter mage now that he’d helped save their lives. He couldn’t see Solas, but he had no doubt the elf was about; ever the outside observer.

Pausing in the entryway that led to the outer vestibule, Cullen looked back at the ballroom. There she was. Standing near the empress and speaking to a few grand looking personages, the Inquisitor looked every bit the height of sophistication. But when she looked past the eldery barons and met his gaze, he felt a thrill run through him.

It wouldn’t be long.

“Drink, ser?”

He was about to wave away the pushy elven servant, only to belatedly realize it was Sera’s cheeky giggle beside him. “What are you-” he began to ask, feeling his exasperation begin to mount, before suddenly deflating. “No. I don’t care. Do as you please, it has nothing to do with me tonight.”

“Get you!” she snorted, delighted by his lack of scolding. She handed him a champagne flute from her tray. “Have this one - I _think_ this is one of the normal ones. Won’t even charge you for it, neither! Byyyye!”

As she twirled away, Cullen regarded the drink in his hand suspiciously. But he was feeling daring right then, so with a shrug he gave in and drained it in one go.

He left the ballroom and headed for the guest wing.


	11. Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the chapter title is a little on the nose.

**Sex**

  


To say Cullen had a complicated history with women was to say the sky was blue, rifts were green, and deathroot was bad for you. It was not immediately apparent. As an intensely private and reserved individual, it usually took many years for even his closest friends to learn that much.

It had begun early, with a girl by the name of Melissa Rutherford. His cousin, in fact (Honnleath was a very small village). She had been a couple of years older and an early bloomer, and he hadn’t been the only boy in the village besotted with her. His puberty had pretty much begun on one memorable Summerday festival when she had given him a hug. In despair over their age difference (three whole years) and the matter of their family relation, Cullen had quietly angsted, unable to look her in the eye or speak to her ever again. But for many years he hadn’t been able to imagine ever marrying anyone other than Melissa.

He’d just about been growing out of that crush when he left Honnleath with the templars and entered into an almost exclusively male world of the Barracks in Denerim. Nearly all the other initiates were boys of various ages, and the few girls in training were almost indistinguishable from the boys both in appearance and levels of hygiene, so for the most part Cullen didn’t notice them.

The Barracks was where Cullen had first been introduced to the concept that opposites didn’t always attract. Not all men wanted women, and not all women wanted men either. Cullen, who was already blessed with blonde curls and warm eyes, and was shaping up to add crooked smile and broad shoulders to the his list of attributes, had puzzled through many odd interactions with an older boy. This boy had kept wanting to do nice things for him - carry his bags, save his place in the lunch queue, touch his hair, share his test answers, and occasionally compare dick sizes. It hadn’t gone much beyond that. Cullen had eventually figured out what it all meant, but had continued to play dumb until the boy grew bored with his indifference and moved on to someone else.

Surana had been his first love, or as close to what he thought love might be. Up until arriving at Kinloch Hold, his experiences had been mundane and only slightly atypical for a templar in training. Most of the other boys had, at some point after coming of age, taken trips to brothels in town at least once. Some had even gone regularly. For Cullen it was out of the question. It was difficult enough for him to even talk to a pretty girl. To simply walk up to one and ask for sex was impossible.

He’d arrived at Kinloch Hold, painfully aware of his own shyness around women and the subject of sex. He’d been teased as a virgin more than once.

After he’d left, that shyness had turned to revulsion. To him, sex was filth, and virginity… well, that was a meaningless concept now. He had realised that dichotomy of virginity - the belief that you either were or were not - was more a state of mind than, and Cullen's state of mind had been muddled to such a degree by inhuman mental and physical torture that he could not tell his memories of one apart from his memories of the other. The smiles of women made him uneasy. Their touches made him shudder. They made him remember things, and it didn’t matter if those things were real or not, it was all the same to him.

Those scars had taken years to heal, but even as he settled into his career in Kirkwall, sex at best held no interest to him. After stolidly rebuffing any attempts at flirtation from several of the female templars, he’d developed a reputation as a prude. He was sure Meredith had liked him even more for this reason. She herself had taken vows of chastity as part of her initiation and was a strong believer that sexual temptation was one of the greatest weaknesses of templars. She had not exactly been wrong… it often seemed that not a week went by without at least one case of blackmail from the brothels or a report of fraternisation between a mage and a templar arrived on her desk.

Lottie had been good for him in that respect. Although she had no inkling of the fact, she had shown him that sex could be divorced from the complications of feelings, and she had never stayed in his bed long enough to learn of the night terrors that followed him into sleep. He had never initiated things with her, and simply gone through the motions when she came to him. He supposed that was why she’d eventually just faded away and he had let her go with hardly a second thought.

After Lottie there had been no one. Not for years. He had thought himself too wrapped up in his work. Too busy learning how to find balance between Meredith’s increasing extremism and his own sense of right and wrong. The reports he had to hide from her. The things he had to cover up. The templars who began reporting to him instead of her, because they didn’t dare go before Meredith. Even when the very real, very extensive conspiracy of mutiny against Meredith had been uncovered, the whistleblowers had brought it to his desk rather than Meredith's, for fear of what she would do. 

Then there were the mages. They were not so innocent as they liked to believe, but ten years of watching the noose being tightened around their necks had changed him. He had to keep them in line. He had to remain above pity and mercy and keep a firm grip on the leash because he could see that the day was coming soon when nothing would hold them back. They were trapped in a vicious circle, and both sides were too far gone to back down.

It was hell.

And in the middle of it was a woman named Nella. She was of no importance; just another Lowtown resident who kept a shop for flowers in her front room, and covered up her apostate brother in the back. He had come for that brother after a tip-off from a rival florist.

Nella hadn’t been too sad to see her brother go, more resigned than anything. She had given Cullen a flower to take with him. “Be kind to him, templar, that’s all I ask.”

She was an attractive woman, but hadn’t had an easy life and it showed with premature grey streaks in her hair. She had a husband, but he was at sea and she hadn’t seen him in years. There were no children. Her brother was all she had, and Cullen had taken him from her.

So when that brother had cornered him in the Gallows and pleaded for Cullen to smuggle a letter out to his sister, Cullen had relented. The brother was one of the better behaved mages, and unlike Meredith, he believed that good behaviour deserved reward. He should have known that accepting the first time would lead to further requests.

It became a weekly thing, to change his patrol through the city and stop by Nella’s shop and slip her a letter. Sometimes she asked him to stay and wait while she wrote a response so he could take it back with him the same day. Each time she would send him away with a flower.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he told her eventually. “If Meredith learns I’m smuggling letters, it’ll be my head on a spit next to the viscount’s. It’s not exactly discreet, is it? A templar visiting a flower shop every week?”

“They will assume we are engaged in an affair, that’s all,” she had said with a shrug.

That time she sent him away with a kiss on the cheek.

The following time it was a kiss on the mouth. “We must keep our story straight,” she explained, but it had become a game.

For the first time since Surana, Cullen had felt the pull of desire for another soul. Nella was simple. She was just a lonely florist and he was a lonely templar. She was sun-freckled and brown, with serious eyes and a mouth that never smiled until he kissed it. His visits grew longer and more frequent, as flowers gave way to kisses, and kisses gave way to touches, and touches gave way to moans.

Then one day he’d knocked on her door and a man had answered. “Ser Cullen? My wife has told me about the letters you bring for my brother-in-law. It’s very good of you. Very good indeed. Is that another one? Thank you, Ser. Maker bless you.”

And so it ended. Nella’s husband had returned from sea, and Cullen passed on the task of delivering letters to a trustworthy subordinate who shared his sympathies. It was a bitter taste in his mouth, but he let it go. He cared for Nella and missed the feelings she had awoken in him that he thought had been killed by a desire demon long ago. He made peace with the short-lived affair, glad at least that it had revealed he was not as damaged beyond repair as he’d thought. When and if the right woman came along, he knew he would be able to give himself over to her.

Then one sunny day in the snowy town of Haven, an elven woman had looked up at him and smiled.

 

* * *

 

 

Where was she?

Cullen’s fingers drummed against the dress for the final time, before he pushed away and began to pace the floor again. The Inquisitor’s room was larger than his own, offering plenty of pacing space, and there was no shortage of mirrors to check his appearance, and then check again, and a third time just to be sure there was nothing caught between his teeth and his hair was still behaving.

Somewhere in the distance a gong trilled, ringing out another hour. That made two since he had left the ballroom. When did Orlesian parties actually end? It was well past midnight by now. Was the Inquisitor still trying to get away? Had she completely forgotten him? Had he misunderstood?

With a sigh he moved to sit on the edge of the bed. His weight sank through the bedding like a stone and he quickly stood up. It was almost indecent how soft that thing was. He thumped the covers a few times to remove the imprint and returned to pacing.

Footsteps in the corridor outside made him pause. When he heard the door click open, his heart surged into his throat.

Dorian stepped into the room, backwards, shutting the door behind him.

The second he turned around and saw Cullen a flash of panic spread across his face. Then suddenly it was mastered, and the mage looked like it was the most natural thing in the world to sneak into the Inquisitor’s room and find Cullen instead. “Commander!” he greeted. “Fancy meeting you here!”

Cullen folded his arms and glowered impressively. “What are you doing in here?”

“I could ask the same of you,” Dorian rebuked. “I could have sworn _your_ room was the other end of the hall.”

He could feel his own face beginning to heat under the mage’s knowing scrutiny. “Just answer the question.”

Dorian reached into his dress coat and withdrew a book. “I found a little present for the Inquisitor,” he said, edging around the gruff commander. “She expressed an interest in the Imperial Chantry, and Skyhold’s library was a little thin in this respect, so I had a look through the library here-”

“I don’t think the Empress will be pleased with the Inquisition stealing books from her library,” Cullen interjected.

“Oh, pish.” Dorian slid the book onto the nightstand beside the bed. “No one will miss it - look, it’s never even been opened. Just a little something to brighten a hard day, but now that I think about it, I think she’ll like _your_ present much more. Oh, well. It’s the thought that counts.”

The mage placed his hands behind his back and rocked back on his heels. “So,” he began, his moustache twitching. “You and the Inquisitor.”

“Do we have to do this now?” Cullen sighed, looking anxiously at the door. If the woman in question walked in now, the night would be doomed.

“You know, I had my suspicions,” Dorian continued obliviously, and didn’t seem to notice that Cullen had forcibly taken him by the elbow and steering him back towards the door. “She was always talking about you. Nary a day went past when the dear Inquisitor didn’t poke her little nose into my book nook for a chat and somehow always ended up chatting about you.”

“Really?” Cullen stopped. “What… what kind of things did you talk about?”

“Now let’s see. She wanted to know what I thought of you, and whether I thought you might have a problem with mages or elves. Then she wanted some general advice about human men - poor thing is really quite new to this interracial business, and I was very worried it was unrequited, so seeing you here brings a tear to my eye, it really does. Although would it kill you to sprinkle some rose petals about? Maybe wrap a ribbon and a bow around it-”

Cullen began hauling him towards the door again.

“Alright! Unwanted advice, I get the picture.”

But before they reached the door, it creaked open and a bald head poked through.

Solas took one look at Cullen and Dorian and their entangled arms and his eyebrows shot up. “So sorry. I thought this was the Inquisitor’s room.”

The bald head disappeared and the door snapped shut.

Cullen closed his eyes and silently prayed to the Maker for patience and mercy.

The door snapped open again, and Solas’ disapproving face reappeared. “This is the Inquisitor’s room,” he said, narrowing his gaze on both men.

“Dorian was just leaving.” Cullen gave the mage a final, firm shove towards the door.

“And the Commander intends to _stay_ ,” Dorian said significantly.

“Is that so?” Solas only seemed faintly surprised. “Are these honourable intentions or-”

“Dishonourable, I should hope,” said Dorian.

“I see, well I only intended to say goodnight but I see she isn’t back yet. Goodnight, Commander.” Solas disappeared from sight again.

“Goodnight, Solas. _Goodnight_ , Dorian.” Cullen pushed the mage through the door and began to close it, but Dorian couldn’t resist the last word.

“Dishonour her gently, Commander!”

The door slammed shut and, just to be safe, Cullen braced his hands against it. Outside he heard silence, and then the soft murmur of voices.

_“I see you got rid of the hat.”_

_“Yes, well, someone told me we’d all be wearing one.”_

_“Sera.”_

_“Yes. Sera.”_

The voices retreated and Cullen tried to relax, but tension now coiled in his muscles like iron bands. He didn’t care if the next person to walk in was the Empress herself, he would throw her out by the scruff of her neck if he had to.

He resumed pacing, and when he could no longer stand to pace, he sat on the bed and ran his hands over his face and hair, There were already a million and one reasons to be nervous tonight, and the constant interruptions were not helping him centre his thoughts.

When the door creaked open once more, Cullen shot to his feet. He supposed he could have expected Sera, or Josephine, or even Leliana arrived to introduce him to more toffs he hoped never to see again. But he knew it was her. He felt it in his bones before she even stepped through the door and quietly closed it after herself.

The Inquisitor and the Commander regarded each other from opposite sides of the room, not unlike a pair of deers caught in the middle of a fight or flight response.

“I’m sorry. It took me forever to escape,” she whispered.

He no longer cared. “Is this… is this still what you want?” he asked her roughly.

Her response was to spread her hands against the door behind her and fumble until her fingers caught the bolt. It slid into place with a very final _thunk_. No more interruptions.

Cullen swallowed.

“I’ve wanted nothing more all evening,” said Lavellan, moving towards him. She reached out, almost shyly, to touch her hand to his chest and slowly slide it up to his shoulder as she closed the final distance between them. When his hand closed over hers, she stilled. “You’re shaking,” she whispered.

“I’ve wanted this a lot longer than one evening,” he confessed. The desire to crush her to him and throw her on the bed was stronger than anything he’d ever felt for a woman. It terrified him. Tonight couldn’t go wrong. It mattered too much.

“What happened to me being too much of a distraction?” She slanted her head to give him a dry look.

“You focus me,” he said, as his arm curled behind her back. “You give my life meaning in more ways than you can imagine. You _do_ distract me, but I think this way might be a more effective means of… exercising those feelings, than just bottling them up and driving myself crazy with them.”

“And what is ‘this way’?” she asked in feigned ignorance.

Some of his control cracked, and his arm tightened around her. “I don’t want to be teased, Lavellan. Not tonight.”

Her large, dark eyes were equally serious. “Then tell me what you want of me.”

Cullen nearly groaned as his fingers sank in her hair and bent his head to meet hers. “You,” he whispered against her lips and saw her eyes slide shut. “I only want you.”

At the first touch of her lips a thrill raced through him from the tips of his fingers to the ends of his toes.

A sharp knock sounded at the door.

Cullen inhaled sharply, and caught Lavellan’s cheek as she tried to turn to face the noise. “Ignore it,” he ordered, pressing an insistent kiss to her mouth.

“It could be important,” she whispered, though did little to fend him off.

“Unless it’s Corypheus, _I don’t care_.” And even then, the darkspawn magister would just have to wait.

Knuckles rapped the door again. To his exasperation, Lavellan pulled away. “Who is it?” she called.

“A bath for you, Your Worship. Courtesy of the Empress.”

Lavellan was already rushing for the door.

Cullen reached after her. “No, don’t-”

But he was too late. The Inquisitor unbolted the door and a sudden parade of elves entered the room in single file. The first two were dragging an empty copper tub with Orlesian lions engraved upon its sides, and a further six brought up the read with heavy buckets of steaming water. The tub was placed at the end of the bed and one bucket after another was poured in rapid succession. A final elf with a wooden box threw an unceremonious handful of what looked like dried petals and herbs into the mixture. Then they all bowed as one and filed out.

Lavellan locked the door again and turned to face her sour Commander.

“You realise that now the entire palace is going to know about us?” he ground out. He wouldn’t have been surprised if the gracious donation of a bath was, in fact, a ploy to gather just this sort of information.

“Is that a problem?” she asked him, blinking. “I thought you didn’t care what people thought of us.”

“I don’t.” He rammed a frustrated hand through his hair. “That doesn’t mean I want you to suffer malicious gossip at the hands of these vultures.”

“If the gossip is that the Inquisitor entertains a handsome and highly respected man in her room late at night, I could do worse.” She lifted a hand to tug at the collar of her dress. “Could you help me with this, please?”

“What are you doing?”

“Having a bath.”

“Now?”

“Cullen, I am covered in demon slime and the blood of a dozen different people. I am having a bath.” Her long lashes flicked as she glanced back at him. “You are welcome to help me. If… if you want to.”

Any frustration or concern over their latest interruption faded abruptly as he realised what she was offering. In four deliberate steps he closed the distance between them and raised a hand to trace the neckline of her gown. The outfit was actually made up of several pieces, each needing to be carefully removed before the next. It must have taken a fleet of servants to get her into this dress, and now Cullen had to work out how to get her out of it all by himself.

“The water is getting cold, Commander,” she whispered with a faint smile as he fumbled with the hooks that held her collar to her sleeves, which in turn needed unbuttoning before they could be removed, which would then free him to reach the buttons of her tunic which ran from the back of her neck to the base of her spine.

“There are ancient dwarven puzzle boxes that have yet to be solved that are easier than this dress,” he informed her.

The hooks began to cooperate, and he finally peeled away the shoulders and sleeves of her dress, leaving her arms bare. He couldn’t resist skating his fingers over her skin. It was impossibly smooth, but began to pucker with gooseflesh by the time his fingers had completed the journey from elbow to collarbone. He moved onto the buttons at the back of her gown - they were tiny and too numerous to count, but he enjoyed the anticipation of each one falling open and revealing just a little more. When the last popped free, he pushed the dress down over her hips and took her hand, helping her step free.

Beneath, all she wore was a short, fitted shift and the mail leggings he had admired so much earlier that night. He crouched and freed her of the last remnants of armour, before moving behind her to unfasten the final laces that held the gossamer shift in place. A few tugs and the fabric parted, revealing the sleek planes of the Inquisitor’s back. One more tug sent the garment floating to the floor.

She was so small, he thought. She had two nations in her thrall and more were falling into line every week, and yet his hand could almost span the width of her back. There was strength in her narrow body, however. Supple muscles and slender curves defied anyone who might call her a waif.

Cullen slid his hand over her shoulder, urging her to turn to face him. “Let me see you,” he said roughly.

Lavellan turned, curling her hands beneath her chin as she did. Her ears had turned quite a fetching shade of pink. This woman could face down archdemons and ancient darkspawn, but blushed when he undressed her? Cullen almost kissed her endearing flushed face, but he knew if he started that, he would not want to stop a second time.

“I want to see you,” he repeated, taking her wrists gently.

She didn’t resist, but her gaze dropped to his chest as he pulled her arms away from her body. His breath caught in his throat, and his body throbbed with desire. She was perfection, as far as he was concerned. Her small high breasts rose with every breath she took, begging to be touched, and he was about to step forward and oblige them when her hand met his chest.

“Bath first,” she reminded him, looking away from him as if he gave off too much heat.

He loved the way her body moved as she walked to the tub and stepped into the water, one careful foot at a time. He held her hand and heard her groan in happiness as she sank into the warm, scented bath. “I’d ask you to join me,” she said. “But…”

But the bath was only big enough for one, and he was big enough to displace most that that perfumed water onto the floor. “I think I’ll make do,” he said, coming to kneel on the floor behind her.

A bar of soap and a cloth had been left in a parcel beside the bath. Lavellan picked them up and offered them to him. “Would you mind doing my hair, Commander?”

His lips lifted in a smirk. “Cassandra never warned me this would be part of the job.”

“From Knight-Commander and _de facto_ viscount of Kirkwall to Washer of the Inquisitor’s Hair,” Lavellan said.

“I think my job is a little more than that.”

“Yes. You can scrub my back too, if you like.”

He chuckled as he snapped open the buttons of his tunic and shrugged out of it, then rolled up the sleeves of the shirt beneath it. Accepting the soap, he began to pick the pins from the Inquisitor’s hair. When it fell free and slid about her shoulders he laughed again.

“What?” Lavellan hugged her knees self-consciously.

“You have curly hair.”

“Oh, hush.”

“I like it.”

“Of course you would.”

Cullen soaked the cloth and stroked it over her hair. The soft waves became even more obvious ringlets, until he began to rub in the roap and massage her scalp. He felt her sigh and lean into his ministrations. “You should wear your hair down more often,” he told her.

“Just around you, maybe,” she said softly, trembling a little as his fingers pressed behind her ears. “I heard something very interesting tonight, after you left the ball.”

“Mm?”

“Lady Something of Some Such Place kept asking me questions about you,” she said. “How old were you… were you married… did you have a pedigree… things like that.”

“Mm.” This grunt was a little less pleased.

“I said you were a fine man, but you ate with your elbows on the table. That turned her right off you, I’m afraid.” She sighed as he squeezed clean water over her hair, rinsing away the soap suds. “Then Lord Whatever started asking me which side of the Frostbacks you fell… I had no idea what he was on about until Dorian explained that it was some sort of euphemism. So I had to tell him that you had no natural teeth left and wear a toupee. That saw him off.”

Cullen watched the water slough down her back as he rubbed the cloth over his shoulders. “I should thank you… I think.”

With a little glance at him, she leant back and settled her back against the end of the tub. He didn’t mind so much that her damp hair pressed into the hollow of his shoulder as she rested her head against him and allowed the cloth to travel down her arms. She watched his progress silently. “Did you ever think this would happen?” she asked quietly. “Not this exactly, but… us?”

The cloth slowed as he moved it over her hand, rubbing away the marks of blood and battle from her fingers. “I’d hoped,” he said simply. He turned his head to brush his lips against her damp cheek.

“You make it all worth it,” she whispered, lifting her mouth close to his. “Everything I’ve gone through… I’m glad, because I have you.”

Cullen went still, uncertain how to respond to such a guileless confession. Any words that came to mind just seemed trite, so he closed the distance between their lips and took possession of her mouth. If he couldn’t tell her how much she meant to him - how his whole miserable, worthless life seemed to have been leading to this moment - he could at least show her.

The Inquisitor’s response was a soft sigh that stirred his blood. He needed to have her, to feel her under his hands, to steady the crashing waves of desire that threatened to unbalance him. The cloth drifted away on the water. In a moment he’d forgotten every intention of seeing to her rest and relaxation, and his hands greedily wandered her body, stroking along her arms and filling his palms with her pert breasts. She groaned again against his mouth, offering herself up to his touch.

“I’ve never known anyone like you,” he whispered between kisses. “I’ve never wanted anyone this much.”

She shook her head, eyes glazed with desire. “Never,” she agreed, and leaned in to kiss him again. As her fingers coiled around his jaw and through his hair, his wandered lower beneath the water, seeking the curve of her hip. She shifted into his touch. “Please,” she breathed against him.

When his hand slipped between her legs, she jolted. Cullen kept his grip about her shoulders, holding her in place as he stroked and teased until she could no longer kiss him but pant helplessly under his touch. It was an intoxicating power to hold over her, although he didn’t feel like the one with the power. He was a slave to her whispered encouragement. Her tiny, fractured moans dictated the rhythm of his fingers beneath the water and the sighs compelled him to press his lips to her throat and her shoulders, tasting her skin.

Thighs trembled and the water rippled and quivered. The Inquisitor’s face was flushed and her brow pinched in concentration. With one long moan, her voice cracked, and so did his restraint.

“I need you,” he whispered savagely into her ear as he began to lift her by the elbows.

“What about my bath?” she asked, looking dazed as she rose to her feet and turned towards him. Water cascaded down her form in rivulets.

“I can’t wait,” he pleaded.

Lavellan stepped drunkenly towards him, and in a second he snatched her up and carried her to the bed. She laughed breathlessly as she bounced upon the overstuffed feather covers and he followed her down quickly, covering her slight body with his larger one, and smothering her laughter with deep, penetrating kisses.

She was slippery, hot to the touch, writhing with impatience. Her fingers plucked at his belt and he quickly unfastened it for her and pushed his britches and linens out of the way. There was no time to savour the moment, or commit to memory the sight of the Inquisitor stretched out beneath him. Her thighs hugged his waist and her hips tilted up invitingly. He reached down between them and with only a small adjustment he felt her flesh part and sheath him in incredible warmth.

They groaned as one. Cullen pressed his forehead to her shoulder and gave himself up to her. The rest of the world melted away. Outside the doors, their problems lay forgotten, and their senses narrowed until they knew nothing beyond edges of the bed; nothing except the touch of their skin, and where he moved deep inside her.

He whispered her name - her true name - with more reverence than a prayer. She clutched at him, accepting him more completely than anyone he’d ever known. “Cullen,” she gasped in his ear.  “My Cullen.”

It was a blur of touch, sound, and sensation. It built fast. He felt her break first, crying out and shaking and driving her hips against him with determination. She squeezed him, drawing him deeper, beckoning him to follow her over the brink.

There was nothing more he wanted to do than shove himself deep and spill himself inside her - mark her as his own in the most primal way. But reality intruded brutally. A persisting nag at the back of his mind that grew louder as he drew closer to his limit, until it screamed at him to _stop_.

With a frustrated growl he rolled away and lay panting, glaring hard at the ceiling.

Lavellan rose on her elbows, to blink at him in confusion. “What’s wrong?”

They had been lost in each other for longer than he’d realised - her hair was almost dry and had become a soft halo of loose curls that pointed every which way. He reached up and smoothed them down. “I was too close,” he explained. “I can’t… not inside you.”

Understanding dawned on her flushed face and she nodded, eyes hooded as she took in the sight of him beside her. “Would you like me to help…?” she asked, a little shyly.

“Just lay with me a while,” he asked, and watched a contented smile spread over her lips before she snuggled into the crook of his arm and laid her head upon his chest. He stroked her back and willed himself to think of other things. Outpost reports. Armour maintenance. Archdemons. Anything but the warm, willing woman against his side.

“When we get back to Skyhold,” she began, plucking at the laces of his undershirt. “I think you should move your things into my rooms.”

“That’ll get everyone talking,” he pointed out.

“People will get used to the idea sooner than you think.”

“Josephine and Leliana won’t like it,” he said, remembering the spymaster’s suspicion over Lavellan keeping him behind in her solar after dismissing the other advisors. “If they think I have greater influence over you than they do, there will be hell to pay.”

The Inquisitor made a flat sound. “Nonsense. I never listened to your advice before, I don’t think I shall start now.”

“I feared as much.”

She patted his chest fondly. “So you will move into my rooms?” she asked. “You should, you know, before you catch your death of cold from that dreadful hole in your roof.”

“Love,” he began gently. “I… may not be a fit bed companion for you. It would be best if we slept apart.”

She lifted herself up just enough to look down at him in confusion. “I find you more than adequate in bed,” she said.

“Well, that’s one thing,” he said, feeling his blood rush to his face… and other places. “When it comes to actually sleeping, you may not enjoy my companionship so much. I am not a restful sleeper.”

Her dark eyes travelled over his face. “I see. And what about tonight? Do you intend to return to your room when we are done?”

“I think that would be best,” he admitted.

“Then we have a problem, because I don’t think we are done just yet,” she said, rising up and sliding herself on top of him. “And I don’t have any intention of letting you sleep tonight anyway.”

She sat back, grinding herself against the part of him that had begun to soften. Now desire slammed through him stronger than ever, and in moments she had him fully erect and in just the right position to sink down on him, inch by tight, wet inch.

“You’re mine for tonight at least, Commander Cullen,” she said, watching his reactions. “You can decide tomorrow where you want to lay your pillow, but right now… _this_ is where you belong.”

He couldn’t help but agree.

 

* * *

 

 

“It is simply not possible. I watched you knock back ten glasses last night - ten glasses! How are you even standing this morning?” Josephine watched Leliana suspiciously as the spymaster smoothly mounted her horse, as if it was just any other morning.

“One must always know their limits,” Leliana said mysteriously. “Although I admit I have never found mine.”

“That must be nice.” Josephine squinted against the sun. “I only had two glasses… I feel close to death.”

“Some Antivan you are,” Leliana smiled. Then she caught sight of the Commander and rolled her eyes. “Oh, not again. This is really too much.”

Cullen was busy lashing himself to the saddle in preparation for their long journey home. “Is there a problem, Sister?” he asked, his voice rough from lack of sleep.

“How can you be tired?” Josephine demanded. “You went to bed early.”

“You should always endeavour to at least try to get a full night’s sleep before a long journey, Commander,” Leliana scolded him.

“Your advice is, as always, invaluable.”

Further along the courtyard, an off-key hoot emerged from from the stables, followed shortly by a large Halla. Seeing the Inquisitor’s approach, Leliana gestured to her. “You should aspire to be more like the Inquisitor, Commander. Now there is a woman who will never be caught unprepared-”

“Good morning, all,” the Inquisitor yawned as her mount clopped past. It escaped no one’s notice that she too was lashed to her saddle and her eyes were mostly shut.

Once she was out of earshot, Cullen nodded at Leliana. “I can only aspire to such greatness,” he said.

Leliana’s eyes narrowed on him. “You are a corrupting influence.”

Cullen smiled, and for a man who was already quite accomplished at ‘smug’, the smugness of this particular smile took even Leliana aback. Despite the dark smudges beneath his eyes and the crumpled hair, he looked quite self-satisfied. With a half shrug he turned his horse and urged it into a trot after the Halla.

Josephine and Leliana traded looks.

“Cassandra will have conniptions,” Josephine warned.

“If we’re lucky,” Leliana agreed.

 


	12. Lovers

**Lovers**

  
  


It had happened in a fraction of a moment. The snap judgement. Cullen had looked at the men and women who surrounded him and weighed the odds… certain that a miscalculation now would lead to his near immediate execution.

But his instincts had always been good.

“Knight-Commander Meredith!” he shouted hoarsely, drawing his sword. “Step down!”

Meredith’s head twitched towards him. Some years ago he had thought her the most imposing and charismatic woman he had ever met. Now she frayed at the edges, more animal-like in her posture than the grand woman he had once pledged himself to. The red blade glinted in her hands, swinging from Hawke to himself.

He didn’t know what that sword was. It sang like lyrium, but the song was discordant, shrill, piercing where lyrium should soothe.

Cullen edged backwards, more to escape the tug of the blade’s power than for fear of its sharp edge. “I’m relieving you of your command, Meredith,” he said steadily, keeping his weapon trained on her. “You are to step down immediately! Lower your sword and end this madness-”

‘You would betray me! After all I have done for you!” Meredith swung blindly at him, and their swords met with a clang. But Meredith’s strength was abominable, and Cullen’s defense crumbled. He felt the tip of the red blade kiss his face. The taste of warm, metallic blood filled his mouth soon after.

“I raised you up from nothing - you decrepit worm!” Meredith raged as he reeled back, holding a hand to his mouth. “You’d still be cowering in that madhouse if it weren’t for me! I took you in, groomed you as my heir, and this is how you repay me! With spinelessness! Cowardice!”

She gestured to him in disgust. “Men! Take him away! I will deal with him later.”

But no one moved. The gathered templars looked nervously from Meredith to Cullen, waiting.

Cullen snapped blood from his hand with a flick of the wrist. “They don’t follow you anymore, Meredith. They haven’t followed you for quite some time, but you haven’t noticed that, have you? Your obsession and madness has clouded your sense! You must step down - now! If there is anything of the woman I once admired left in you, then you would do what is right!”

“You think they follow you?!” Meredith’s bark of laughter was harsh and hysterical. “Templars! The Knight-Captain has fallen to the power of blood magic! Kill him!”

Cullen’s fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. Fear was a powerful motivator, and what mattered now was what the templars feared more: Meredith’s wrath or a Meredith unchallenged.

Still no one moved to carry out her orders.

“Templars,” called Cullen. “Draw your swords.”

A devastating silence met his ears. Until one by one, the hiss of metal sliding on metal rang throughout the courtyard as each templar drew their weapon. Cullen saw the rage and fear flit through Meredith’s eyes. In seconds she had lost control. It was unfathomable that she could so easily slice his face in two and yet the men and women around them rallied to his side.

Cullen stood straighter. “Stand down, Meredith! I order it!”

“Idiot boy,” she hissed. “You’ll die. Just like all the others!”

 

* * *

 

 

“We have struck several blows to Corypheus’s plans. There is no word yet what his next move will be, but we are sure he will be delving to desperate lengths.” Leliana moved about the war table, pushing small iron pieces across the map to illustrate the movements of their troops and their enemies. “My people are working hard to intercept communique to any remaining pockets of red templars - as soon as the enemy knows what their next orders are, we will too.”

“Corypheus is on the back foot now, Inquisitor,” said Cullen, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “We must keep up the pressure against him until he surfaces again. Samson is still our strongest lead. If we find him, we may find where Corypheus is hiding.”

“Dorian’s research into Corypheus’s mortal life is proving very fruitful too,” added Josephine. “I suggest we dedicate more resources to the investigation. There is still much to learn and it may aid us in future confrontations with him.”

“I don’t see how knowing that creature’s real name aids us,” Cullen sighed. “Unless you’re suggesting that perhaps shouting out the name of his childhood puppy in the heat of battle might give us an edge.”

Josephine arched her eyebrows coolly. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“I agree, it doesn’t hurt to know more about our enemy,” said the Inquisitor. Cullen rolled his eyes faintly. It seemed to be that she agreed with him even less often these days.

“I fear we may be experiencing a calm before the storm,” said Leliana. “Corypheus grows desperate... but for now we can only watch and wait. Skyhold may be his next target. We must be vigilant.”

“Fortifications are nearly complete,” Cullen told them. “Our soldiers are blooded and ready and the evacuation tunnels have been cleared and stabilised. If Corypheus were to attack us, he would be a fool.”

The Inquisitor surveyed the table with a low sigh. “Let us hope so.”

“There are a few other matters we must attend to, as well, Your Worship,” Josephine began haltingly. “We have reports that a group of dalish elves has entered the Frostbacks and appear to be coming this way.”

The Inquisitor’s gaze froze on map.

“The scouts could not get close - but they suspect it is the Lavellan clan.”

“How long till they arrive?” the Inquisitor asked.

“A day or two at most,” said Leliana.

“And you said those fortifications are nearly complete?” the Inquisitor asked Cullen.

He gave her a dry smile. “Are they really so bad?”

“It’s complicated,” was all she cared to say. “Let us leave it here for today. We have a lot to go on with, it seems.”

Leliana drifted out first, followed by Josephine who had grabbed an armful of papers - correspondence with a myriad of nobles from the Winter Ball. “And not even half of it is for the Inquisitor,” Josephine had said, casting Cullen a dark look that seemed to lay blame at his feet for her mountain of paperwork.

As Cullen made his way back toward the main hall, the Inquisitor fell into step beside him. “You’re grumpy today,” she observed.

And as all grumpy people did when their grumpiness was pointed out, Cullen felt even grumpier. “I’m fine,” he grumped.

“And you’re as white as a sheet.” Her hand on his elbow drew him to a stop, and she reached up to stroke his brow. “You’re also too hot.”

He caught her hand between his and lowered it. “I will be fine,” he said more patiently. “It’s just a headache. Today is… not one of my good days.”

Lavellan sighed, her eyes full of concerned exasperation. “And I suppose you haven’t eaten yet, or elected to take a break?” She didn’t wait for his answer. “Come to my room in an hour. I have something that will make you feel better.”

His heart almost skipped a beat, until he realised he knew her better than that. “You mean tea, don’t you?”

The Inquisitor’s smile was full of subdued mischief. “What else would I mean?” She stepped away, evading his hand as he playfully grabbed for her. If he had his own way he would have her up against the wall and squirming under his kisses, but Josephine was sitting at her desk just around the corner and Lavellan was not one for public displays.

For all intents and purposes, their outward relationship didn’t appear much changed. If his subordinates noticed that around mid-afternoon every day, a messenger arrived in his office with a small tray and a pot of dalish tea - courtesy of the Inquisitor - they thought nothing of it, or the way he smiled when he read the accompanying note. If anyone noticed that the Commander now took his breakfast in the great hall alongside the Inquisitor, it hardly raised an eyebrow at it was only expected. A few of the more canny observers might have noticed that they sat more closely than was appropriate.

It had also worked its way through the Barracks that the Commander had started to take the occasional break from work, though only because he was prompted to do so by the Inquisitor. The two were usually seen walking along the battlements, deep in conversation as might be expected of a leader and one of her closest advisors, though some alleged that he liked to give his advice while stroking her hair.

Cullen had heard all the rumours, and they made him smile. They weren’t trying to hide the relationship, though circumstances mostly kept them apart, allowing few opportunities to indulge in each other’s company. Most days he had to content himself to admiring glances from afar, or the soft brush her hand over the back of his neck when she passed his seat at breakfast.

It seemed the only time they were permitted to forget their responsibilities was at night, when Cullen climbed the stairs to her solar and the Inquisitor finally stepped into his arms. His nightly visits stoked the rumours even more, but it wasn’t unusual for the Inquisitor to speak with her friends and colleagues in her rooms after hours, and so the rumours remained just that: rumours.

Right up until one night, when screams from the Inquisitor’s rooms had brought a whole battalion of alarmed guards from the main hall bursting through her door and up the stairs. But rather than the deadly assassination attempt they thought they were interrupting, they were confronted with the sight of a very naked Inquisitor standing between the bed and the stairs, attempting to calm not only the guards themselves but the equally naked man in her bed who thrashed in the last grips of night terrors.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but it had been too easy to relax against Lavellan’s breast and forget all the good reasons why he shouldn’t remain in her warm embrace. Struggling awake to find six strangers in the bedroom, staring at him like he was deranged was a good reminder. Lavellan had gotten rid of them quickly enough and returned to his side to try and sooth his panic, though he had seen she was struggling with her own distress. He was used to the night terrors, but she was not.

“Is it always like that?” she asked him, as she stroked his hair in the aftermath. His heart still hammered beneath his ribs, but her touch made it easier to remember what was real and what was past.

“Not always, no,” he said. “But often enough.”

“I didn’t know it was that bad…”

“It has been worse.”

Her worry for him was almost worse than the nightmares, and so he kissed her softly until she relaxed into his arms and the passion he thought they’d sated hours ago was once more rekindled. Eager to forget the bad memories he had lost himself in her, and she was only too happy to welcome back the milder man she knew.

The nug was officially out of the bag by the following morning. There was more than one sideways glance from the men during the drills. When he passed Iron Bull, the massive mercenary felt it necessary to clap Cullen on the back (hard enough to almost send him staggering into a wall) and tell him to “give the Boss my congratulations!”

He supposed he should have been thankful that at least the truth of last night had gotten muddled up in the retelling at some point. When he went to the stables to check on his charger, he heard two young women mucking out the stall further along who had failed to notice him.

“...making such a racket that they brought half the fortress guards running, thinking someone was being murdered.”

“Blimey. I’d like to cum so hard people thought I was being murdered.”

“I’d like the _Commander_ to make me cum so hard people thought I was being murdered.”

Cullen quickly left, his face a fiery red.

With this level of salacious gossip, it was only a matter of time before Cassandra found out. And he knew exactly when that was, for she suddenly appeared during the afternoon training drills.

The Seeker often liked to watch the troops train, and he was no stranger to the sight of her leaning on the fence, watching the drills. But today she just watched Cullen, eyes narrowed to fine slits.

Taking a deep breath, Cullen crossed the training yard to meet her.

 

* * *

 

 

She found him sitting before Andraste’s decapitated head. The prophet's nose had been ripped off and most of her golden crown had gone, but she was still worshipped. Wreaths of flowers and candles surrounded her, along with piles of ash. It was customary when a loved one died to go to the chantry with their name upon a slip of parchment and burn it before the altar of Andraste. As the Prophet had been burned and sent to her maker, so too were their loved ones.

Andraste’s disembodied head was all that was left of the grand chantry now, and the piles of ash were too numerous to count.

“Knight-Commander?”

Cullen did not respond. His new title was too unfamiliar and his thoughts were too distant.

“Knight-Commander Cullen?”

At the sound of his name he turned, and his face immediately hardened. Of all their troubles… he did not need this now. “Seeker,” he greeted, taking note of the woman’s armour.

“Cassandra Pentaghast,” she introduced herself bluntly. “I wish to speak to the one in charge. I was told this was you?”

Cullen had warned himself this would likely happen. Taking the responsibility of leadership in a crisis such as this did not come without extreme cost. The people were already looking for someone to blame, and plenty of that was being laid at the door of the templars. Perhaps rightfully so. But now that the one responsible was nothing more than a crackling red statue locked in an expression of perpetual horror and rage, who was left to shoulder the blame but himself?

He had always known Kirkwall was a shithole. It turned out that the requirement to lead involved little more than a willingness to shovel most of the shit.

So of course the Seekers had arrived - far too late to be of any use, but certainly just in time to mete out their infamous witch hunts and scapegoating.

“You are Knight-Commander, Cullen, are you not?” repeated the Seeker when he didn’t respond.

“For all that title is worth, yes,” he said bitterly, folding his arms. “I am Knight-Commander of Kirkwall, overseer of a circle with no mages, commander of a templar force that has scattered to the winds, and caretaker of a city that lies in rubble. What do you want?”

“I understand the circle has fallen,” Cassandra said, circling the remains of Andraste’s visage. “I also understand you let the mages go.”

Cullen’s jaw clenched. “Most of the surviving mages fled on the night of the explosion during the chaos. Some of the templars went against my orders and pursued them… there were not enough left to carry out rescue operations and guard the few mages who remained in the Gallows.”

“Why not leave the rescue operations to the city guard?” Cassandra asked sharply. “A templar’s sole responsibility is to check the mages. Sifting through rubble to pull out survivors is not your prerogative.”

“This is our home. These are our people.” Cullen ground out. “You expect me to ask my men and women to do nothing?”

“Why did you order against pursuing the mages?” The seeker demanded. “That is your job, is it not?”

“Our job is to protect mages and protect the people from mages,” Cullen retorted. “From where I stand, that means cleaning up this mess and saving lives, not chasing scared wretches across the country. I’ve heard what my brothers and sisters are doing out there in their pursuit of mages, and I want no part of it. We’ve seen enough bloodshed here.”

“You will spend the rest of your life cleaning up this city, Knight-Commander, and no one will thank you,” Cassandra told him.

“I wasn’t aware I was doing it for thanks.” He scowled at the woman. “What is your purpose here, Seeker? If you’re looking for Meredith, she’s as good as dead. The mage who did this is gone. Even the Champion has disappeared. All you’ll find in Kirkwall now is ruins.”

“And you.”

He tried to smirk, but the stitches holding his lip together pulled painfully. “You did not come all the way from Orlais just to see me.”

“You’re not wrong.” Cassandra fell silent as a clatter of approaching armour made Cullen turn away from her.

“Knight-Commander,” greeted two female templars. “We’ve successfully evacuated the western warehouses, sir.”

“Have the Starkhaven templars arrived yet?” he asked them.

“Word is they’ve been waylaid.”

He sighed. “Of course. Go meet up with the merchant’s guild in Hightown. They need more hands.”

“Yes, sir.” The women bowed and marched off to meet up with an awaiting platoon at the edge of the courtyard.

Cullen returned his attention to Cassandra, who was dusting ash from Andraste’s ear. “The mage revolt has spread to Starkhaven, hasn’t it?” he asked. “They promised us reinforcements weeks ago, yet they keep delaying.”

“The templar order is falling apart,” Cassandra told him. “Templars in Starkhaven, Ostwick and Markham have mutinied. And it won’t end there either.”

“And here I thought I was just spectacularly incompetent.”

“On the contrary, Knight-Commander, you’ve kept tighter control than most. And by all accounts, you wrested control of the templars from Meredith and led them in opposition of the Rite of Annulment. In this day and age, it’s a rare sight to see templars fight to save the lives of mages.”

“Is that why you’re here? To arrest me for mutiny?”

“I think I have more important things to do than arrest one of the few remaining commanders with any authority left for opposing lunatics,” Cassandra said, sounding a little affronted. She looked at him hard for a moment, before touching her lip. “I take it Meredith gave you that.”

“She did.”

“That’ll make an impressive scar.”

“You have a few of your own,” he said.

Cassandra smirked, and pointed to her left cheek. “A dragon,” she said, then pointed to the other. “And a pebble, kicked by a horse.”

It could have been a joke, but Cullen didn’t laugh - there was something a little too believable about the idea of this woman fighting dragons in her spare time.

“In truth, I am not here as a representative of the seekers, so you needn’t be so defensive with me, Knight-Commander. I have no interest in interfering with what is left of the templar order here.” From a satchel at her side, the Seeker withdrew a heavy book. “I’m here on the orders of Divine Justinia. With current events being what they are, the chantry must intervene soon, or risk losing Thedas to turmoil. She is forming a somewhat… clandestine group. With any luck, we will not be needed. But if things continue to spiral out of control, this group will be called upon to establish order by whatever means necessary.”

Cullen looked at the book she offered him. He didn’t need to take it to know what she offered. “You propose a new Inquisition?”

“The templars have failed. Even the seekers are at a loss. It may be the only means of stopping a full-out mage rebellion… and I don’t have to tell you what such an outcome would cost us.”

“Why are you telling me this-”

“Because I have been tasked to find the best and recruit them to the cause.” Cassandra pressed the book into his hands. “And since I can’t find Marianne Hawke, you will have to do.”

Cullen pushed the book back towards her. “I cannot abandon my duty to Kirkwall.”

“Your duty is over. It is done. There is nothing left in Kirkwall to fight over. You do not have the power or resources to cope with the magnitude of the destruction that has taken place here… but the Divine could give you all that and more.”

“Do you even know who I am?” Cullen asked her.

“Of course.”

“I don’t think you would be asking me to join your special little club of the elite if that was true.”

“You are Cullen Stanton Rutherford, born in the Arling of Redcliffe. You became a templar initiate at thirteen, were knighted at nineteen, and entered into the Ferelden Circle at Kinloch Hold. I am fully aware of the circumstances of your removal from the circle when you were twenty-one. I have read the complaints lodged by the mages there, I have exchanged letters with Knight-Commander Gregoir - he is pleased to hear you are well, by the way - and I have spoken directly to the former Revered Mother of Greenfell. She is a Grand Cleric now, but she remembers you well, and Justinia is very fond of her.”

Cullen swallowed, his mind racing.

“I would not be approaching you if I was not intimately familiar with your history, Ser Cullen. I do not make this offer lightly… and you should not undervalue yourself. You would be a credit to the Inquisition.”

“If I wanted to hunt down mages, I don’t need to change my occupation,” he said.

“The Inquisition will be what we make it,” she told him. “You want to make a difference in this world, don’t you? This is how you begin; not as another cog in a broken-down machine, but as the pioneer of a new world order.”

Cullen said nothing, and looked down at the book that had somehow ended up in his hands after all.

“You have outgrown this city, Commander.” Cassandra said, moving past him slowly. “Think about my offer carefully. I leave for Val Royeaux at the end of the week. You have till then to decide.”

 

* * *

 

  


“I see you chose not to take my advice.”

Cullen placed his hand upon the fence near Cassandra elbow and looked out over the training men. Months back, their motley collection of soldiers had been small enough to drill within the walls of Skyhold, back when it was touch and go if they even knew  which end of the sword to swing. Now the Inquisition’s standing army was too large to be drilled within Skyhold, and so daily drills had moved on to the frozen lake below the fortress.

Cullen preferred this location. The slippery ice was an especially useful aid in teaching balance and footwork - if the soldiers could fight on ice, they could fight just about anywhere. Yes, there was still the occasional thud and a groan, but it was a sight to behold. A thousand men and women in uniform, moving in unison with strength and precision. This was only a fraction of their force as well. Most were deployed across the continent.

Cullen surveyed them like a proud father.  

“Have you come to chastise me, Seeker?” he asked her.

“Would it do much good?” she drawled. “I gave you sound advice, and you chose to ignore it. Why would I expect you to listen to me now?”

“You sound like you’re sulking.”

Cassandra straightened swiftly. “It is not sulking. It is _disappointment_.”

“You say that like I did this to spite you. Would it interest you to know that you didn’t factor into the decision whatsoever?” he asked.

“Cullen,” she shot him a look of warning, “I do not begrudge you finding happiness. I am not your enemy on this.”

“Have you changed your mind then?”

Her mouth set in a grim line. “Not exactly… but I will concede that some of my fears appear to be unfounded. Leliana tells me that the Inquisitor favours you no more or less than before on professional matters, and your feelings for her do not seem to have compromised your conduct. You even seem to be much healthier in yourself.”

“I feel it,” he agreed.

“Because she coddles you like a mother hen, dosing your tea with dalish medicines and taking you for constitutional walks.” She gave him a sideways look and scoffed at his expression. “And you actually enjoy it, don’t you?”

“I don’t think I’ll ever enjoy the tea,” he admitted “But the rest is not so bad.”

“The rest of my worries remain the same, however,” she said, looking away from him to the training soldiers. “This gossip will spread beyond Skyhold soon, and the results remain to be seen. Josephine is concerned it may affect negotiations with certain allies. We secured a contract with Lady Poulin for passage through her lands, on the promise that she could introduce you to her daughter-”

Cullen spluttered. “You - what-”

“If she learns you are the Inquisitor’s lover, we can wave goodbye to that deal,” she sighed. “But mostly I am concerned what will happen when the relationship ends.”

“You sound certain it will.”

She shrugged. “Most relationships do. I am a realist. I think your attachment is more pronounced than hers… and I worry for you. Could you remain her commander and advisor if she breaks your heart? Could you remain at Skyhold at all?”

“Lavellan is a reserved woman; that does not mean she does not care. And even if what you say is true, my heart is not so weak it could not withstand her indifference.”

Cassandra gave him a plain look. He could not fool her for even a second, and so he looked away quickly.

“I pray you are right,” she sighed. “May you be blessed with long years together and many fat, happy children.”

“Maker’s teeth, Cassandra…”

“Did I say something?” she asked archly. As she turned to saunter away, she looked at him over her shoulder. “By the way, Varric won’t be put off any longer. Tonight is game night. If you don’t show, he will set Sera on you.”

Cullen sighed. He had only just brokered a ceasefire with that harridan. As if he needed to give her any excuse to break it. “Fine…”

 

  



	13. Wicked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which someone ends up naked.

**Wicked**

  
  


“... and then this muffled voice comes out from beneath the bed saying _‘Better make that three!’_ ”

Laughter exploded around the table. Iron Bull was so amused he raised his fist and hammered on the table, hard enough to have tankards jumping and coins scattering. It only made the others laugh even harder once they’d safely rescued anything breakable.

“That’s utter wickedness!” Cassandra snorted. “You’re pulling our legs!”

“I believe every word of it,” Cullen said, eyeing Dorian.

“The things I heard that night,” said the Tevinter mage, moustache twitching. “Let me tell you-”

Josephine quickly interrupted. “Perhaps we should return to our game?”

“Only because you’re winning, Ruffles.” Varric grumbled. The dwarf normally dominated Wicked Grace, but his pile of winnings had been steadily whittled down over the course of the evening as Josephine’s had grown. Cullen’s game-face had broken even so far, but Dorian, Blackwall and Sera had been cleaned out. The latter had disappeared to get another round of drinks but had yet to return.

The Inquisitor still held onto a few silver, but as Wicked Grace was not a common game among the Dalish, she was still asking what the rules were, three hours into the game.

“I’m sure my beginner’s luck can’t last forever,” Josephine demurred, happily rearranging her pile of winnings.

“You’re Antivan,” Varric said plaintively, as if that explained everything.

“Would anyone like to raise the stakes?” she asked the table sweetly.

The Inquisitor put two silver forward. “I think I’m getting the hang of this game,” she said, quite unconvincingly.

Cullen met the bet and watched Iron Bull do the same. The others shook their heads and returned to their drinks as Josephine dealt everyone a new hand of cards.

At the corner of the table, a large hat lifted. “Old stings,” whispered Cole, chewing on a thumb nail. “The scars ache in the cold. But he thinks another will warm him up.”

The table fell quiet as they looked to each other. Here was the secondary game of the evening… trying to guess whose brain Cole was tapping into.

“Argh…” Iron Bull scratched the scars on his chest. “That would be me.”

“Put a cardigan on if you’re cold,” Cassandra rebuked him.

“Clothing just chaifs. I don’t know how Cullen puts up with all those layers, urgh. Raise you three silver.”

A series of clinks followed as the players met the bet.

Varric folded his cards down in defeat. “You must have some good stories from your templar days,” he said to Cullen, who was struggling not to look smug over the three queens he had drawn.

“Oh, yes,” Cullen agreed. “Have I told you the one where my Knight-Commander went mad and ignited a mage revolt across Thedas?”

“I think I’ve heard that one,” mused Dorian.

“Something less gloomy, perhaps,” Varric persisted.

The Inquisitor caught Cullen’s eye and she gave him a secretive sort of smile. He was loathe to bare the old memories that seemed like they belonged to someone else, but for her, he would bare anything.

Cole looked up. “I think he wants you to see him naked,” he said, sounding uncertain.

As Cullen examined his cards studiously, Dorian stroked his moustache. “Well, that _could_ be me, I suppose.”

“Perhaps I do have a story,” Cullen began, eager to change the subject. “Back when I was a lowly Knight-Templar in Ferelden, there was a new recruit, fresh from his training at the White Spire in Orlais. Thick accent, a little difficult to understand sometimes, but a nice boy. He was fascinated with the story of Kinloch’s ‘missing’ floor.”

At this, Cassandra snorted and took a swig of her mead.

“What’s this now?” Dorian wondered, leaning in.

“Kinloch Hold is the tower where Ferelden’s circle is housed,” explained Cassandra. “From the outside, you can see the tower has five floors. Inside, there are only four. Legend says that some magical experiment gone wrong swallowed up a whole floor into another dimension.”

“It’s no mere legend,” said Cullen to his captive audience. “One day this new recruit asks _‘Why do I always get so dizzy and nauseous when climbing the stairs to the third floor?’_ So we told him. ‘ _Probably because you’re passing through what’s left of the missing floor.’”_

“Bull,” stated Iron Bull.

“It’s all true,” Cassandra said. “The Seekers investigated it most thoroughly many years ago.”

“Of course, this recruit was particularly fascinated by the idea of a whole floor just disappearing. He kept asking us questions about it, and wanted to know why it could be seen from the outside but unreachable from the inside. After he had endured his initiation process and all the compulsory hazing, we finally let him in on a little known fact… that one can still get to the floor. It’s a tightly guarded secret, of course. The last thing we needed were mages discovering how to escape into another dimension. The way in was closely guarded, so naturally it was out of the question that this recruit would ever get to see it.

“The poor boy was so down in the mouth after this. He so wanted to see this missing floor for himself, and so out of the goodness of our hearts, we relented. We hatched a plan; the senior templars who guarded the way to the missing floor changed nightly, and one particular guard was a friend of ours who was susceptible to the odd bribe. It was all arranged. We would sneak out during shift change, just before supper, and make it past the tame guard - spend a little time checking out the missing floor, then return to the dining hall to take our supper. None would be the wiser. I fold, by the way.”

Josephine slapped her cards down. “Four aces!” She reached for the money, but the Inquisitor coughed politely.

“I believe I have a flash,” said Lavellan, laying down her cards.

“It’s a flush,” corrected Varric.

Cullen smirked. “Well done.”

The Inquisitor, glowing, pulled the money towards herself. She looked up at Cullen with a smile. “Please continue.”

That smile never failed to make his insides twist into knots.

Cole scratched himself. “Soft lips. Eyes like seeds. She’s pretty when she wins. Prettier when she loses herself when he slides his-”

“So as I was saying,” Cullen continued loudly, as the blushing Inquisitor buried her face in a tankard. “The night of our escapade arrives. We sneak up to the third floor and we go to the hidden entrance. Inside is our tame Templar guard. He tells us the coast is clear, so we head to the window.

“You see, the only way to get to this dimensionally challenged floor was to lower yourself from the window of the third floor. We let the recruit have the honour of going first, but naturally we told him he should take off his armour. The rope could barely hold the weight of a grown man, let alone a grown man in full plate armour. I can only imagine what must have passed through the mind of anyone on the grounds outside who happened to look up. They would have seen a skinny boy in his altogether, shimmying down the side of the tower like a greased eel. It was quite a sight.”

“Mm.” Dorian’s gaze had grown distant.

“Did he make it to the other dimension?” Josephine whispered.

Cullen wet his lips with a sip of ale. “We may not have been completely forthcoming with all the facts,” he said. “We didn’t really have a tame templar. That room was just where the senior templars went to skive off. And abseiling from the third floor doesn’t really lead to a hidden inter-dimensional portal… it just leads to the second floor. In particular, this second floor window let out into the great hall, where around a hundred mages and templars were sitting down to supper.”

Even Blackwall gasped. Josephine tried to smother a giggle behind a ladylike hand, and Dorian grinned beneath his moustache.

“You rotters!” The Inquisitor chuckled.

“So in he bursts through the window, in nothing but his knickers. I reckon this was the point he realised he’d been had.”

Splutters of outrage and delight sounded around the table. Cullen held his coins down - Iron Bull was banging the table again.

“What did he do? Josephine demanded to know.

“Saluted, of course, and marched out like he was in full plate armour. He was a good boy. He laughed harder than anyone afterwards.” And then Cullen had tripped over his corpse on the third floor, and the blank, blood encrusted eyes were suddenly all he could see while his companions laughed and dealt more cards.

At the end of the table, Cole shuddered and took a breath.

 _Don’t you dare,_ Cullen directed the urgent command at Cole and saw the boy flinch as if someone had shoutedin his ear. But he didn’t take his eyes of Cullen. “The king and the queen, one heart between...” he whispered.

“Oi!” Blackwall slapped his cards down. “Stop reading my hand, you.”

The game progressed, and more dropped out. Blackwall wanted to preserve his dignity, and Varric wanted to preserve his pension funds. Cullen noticed that the Inquisitor had barely cleared the head on her pitcher of ale, but she was already a little flushed and quick to laugh at Varric’s improbable tales.

“How did you even get away with that?” she gasped with laughter.

“By the skin of our teeth! And when the Knight-Captain here came along, we had to keep up the ruse or he would have slung us in the Gallows-”

“Wait - that old dwarven hag was you?!” Cullen interrupted. “Then that hideous hunchback-”

“Was Hawke!” At his expression, Varric only laughed harder. “Sorry, Curly. You were such a stick in the mud back then - you totally would have arrested us.”

“I’d arrest you now if I saw you in that dress again,” said Cullen.

“Didn’t the chest hair tip you off?” Lavellan asked him.

“I am a gentleman - I would never stare at a lady’s chest hair.”

“Are we still playing?" Josephine piped up, too eagerly for Cullen’s taste. She almost certainly had a good hand.

“I fold,” he said.

“Me too,” agreed Cassandra.

Only the Inquisitor seemed oblivious. “I’ll raise you five silver, Josephine.”

“Certainly, Your Worship,” Josephine met the bet and the round finally ended.

The Inquisitor promptly lost all but six coppers.

“We should call it a night,” said Cassandra. “It’s getting late.”

Cullen was inclined to agree, but Lavellan shook her head. “One more round - I think I’m getting the hang of it.”

“You aren’t,” Cullen told her frankly.

She typically ignored his advice. “Deal again, Josephine!”

As they settled into the final round, Varric turned on the Inquisitor. “You must have a story, from you pre-holy days,” he said.

“I might have one or two,” she said, giving the dwarf an impish smile. This was the most drunk Cullen had ever seen her, but she still retained her grace and her charm only sharpened. “Sex, nudity, or mortal danger? Which do you prefer?”

“Nudity seems to be the going rate tonight,” Dorian said.

“How about all three?” Iron Bull suggested, but the huge qunari had now drunken roughlytwice his own bodyweight in alcohol, and he was reclining dangerously in his chair, horns hanging low.

“In that case.” Lavellan settled back in her chair. “I’m reminded of a time years ago, when my clan was passing through the Tirashan forest in the far west. I do not recommend it. The Tirashan is one of the few places left untouched by humans, so you’d think Dalish elves would be thick on the ground, wouldn’t you? But even elves avoid that place, for our legends tell of a creature called the manticore - a wretched mistake the Creators made when they were trying to create Griffons. It has the body of a lion and the head of a man with jagged teeth, bat wings, and a tail like a scorpion. It shrieks like a halla… but when it hunts you it will be silent, and you will never see your death coming.”

“Which means the Inquisitor will be acquiring it as a mount any day now,” interjected Dorian.

Lavellan sniffed and ignored this, turning to Josephine instead. “I bet six coppers.”

“Met, and I raise you six silver.”

“I don’t have six silver…” said the Inquisitor.

“You have your clothes,” Blackwall pointed out, stroking his beard a little too casually.

“We’re not _actually_ doing that, are we?” Cullen asked quickly.

“Why not?” Dorian batted his eyelashes at him. “We agreed beforehand.”

“Yes, but-”

“Don’t worry. I have a good feeling about this one,” the Inquisitor said, glowing as she looked at her cards.

“You were saying about the manticore,” Cassandra prompted.

“Oh, yes. Well, my clan was naturally a little nervous entering the forest, but we needed to avoid the western approach - too many human caravans, you see. But it was tough. Even in the middle of the day, the forest was so dark and claustrophobic. We tried to move quickly, but the overgrown roots made it difficult for our aravals, and one evening we were forced to stop in the shadow of a ruined fortress - as dark as the bottom of a well. Keeper Deshanna swore it was safe, but the Hunters refused to hunt that night. They said they could hear noises coming from deep inside the ruins… beastly noises… not unlike the trumpeting of a halla, they said.”

“Oh, boy,” muttered Varric.

“And so our warleader put together a small group to hunt down the beast - almost certainly a manticore, by our reckoning. I was only fourteen and the clan’s Second at this time, but I still somehow ended up at the front of the band of veteran hunters and warriors, heading down into this black abyss with my apprentice staff to light the way.

“All had gone very quiet… but as we descended further into the ruins, the noises began to stir again. The courage of some of our hunters failed and they fled back to the surface, and I must admit that I nearly fled too, except I was trying to impress another young hunter at the time… in my young mind, I must have thought the best way to get a boy to like me was to offer him the bleeding, severed head of a legendary monster.”

“That usually works, yes,” Cassandra said as the table chuckled.

“Then we entered a chamber, and by the light of my staff we saw movement - something pale and shiny - and heard a horrible roar!” The Inquisitor’s cheeks had begun to turn red. “My warleader started to laugh - I assumed he’d gone mad with fear and I panicked. I think I screamed like a little girl and zapped the hideous monster with my staff and ran for cover. Then, quick as you like, up jumped two shem- I mean, humans - naked as jay birds! I’d scorched the poor man’s backside while they’d been going at it like rabbits, and they ran out of there, fast as you like, bare arses shining in the moonlight the whole way back to their village!”

Sniggers broke out around the table as the Inquisitor shook her head. “It was my first time seeing humans up close like that. It was quite a first impression. I worried they were all such randy fools.”

“I’d hope your current dealings with humans would dissuade you of such bad first impressions, but alas,” sighed Dorian. “That sums up humans pretty well.”

“I liked the part with the rabbits,” said Cole happily.

“Time to show your hand, Your Worship,” said Josephine. She laid her own hand upon the table - four drakes and a staff.

The Inquisitor slapped her own hand down eagerly. “Read them and weep, Lady Ambassador!” She had four staffs and a sword.

Blackwall coughed. “Drakes are higher than staffs, my lady.”

“What?” the Inquisitor looked crestfallen as Josephine took the last of her money.

“And the rest, Inquisitor,” Dorian reminded her. “You owe six silver in clothing - that’s twelve pieces of clothing.”

Wait a minute… “You don’t have to,” said Cullen quickly.

“As Herald of Andraste, I must always honour my word, Commander, for it is the word of the prophet,” sighed the Inquisitor, beginning to unbutton her jacket.

“You don’t even believe in Andraste!” Cullen had undressed the Inquisitor enough times to know that, even including her boots, she was not wearing more than six articles of clothing. “Stop her,” he beseeched Cassandra.

“I think she’s determined,” observed Cassandra, as the Inquisitor flung off her vest and started on her boots.

Cullen looked around - Iron Bull and Blackwall were watching with far too much interest. Even Josephine had stopped counting her coins to give the elf a sideways look. Dorian was just shaking with silent laughter, mostly from the expression on Cullen’s face. Varric was politely averting his eyes.

“We should do this more often, Lavellan,” he said, looking at the ceiling as one boot landed on the table, followed by another. “It’s easy to forget you’re actually a person and not just a symbol.”

“Symbols don’t get naked nearly as often as they should,” Dorian agreed.

“Hold this for me,” said Lavellan, tossing her britches to Cullen.

This was not how he’d wanted to divest her of her pants tonight.

“Inquisitor,” he began, rising to his feet. “As commander and adviser, I really don’t think you should take off any more clothes.”

“Rules are rules, Commander,” she responded. Then suddenly her breast binding was on the floor and she had wiggled in her seat just enough to let him know her linens were now around her ankles too. She looked at the others. “Now what?”

“I think that deserves a round of applause. Good sport!” said Dorian, clapping his hands. The others followed suit, complete with hooting from Iron Bull, and the Inquisitor blushed and graciously accepted the applause with a nod.

Cullen drummed his fingers against the table.

“Now you have to walk back like that,” grinned Blackwall. Cullen nearly pushed him off his chair.

“I have no desire to witness this,” said Cassandra, rising to her feet. “Goodnight, all.”

“I suppose I should spare you _some_ dignity,” Dorian sighed, climbing out of his chair and giving Josephine’s arm a strongly hinted tug until the bashful Ambassador reluctantly rose with him. They collected Cole on the way out too, who still tittered about rabbits.

“My lady,” bowed Blackwall, his beard doing little to hide his poorly concealed smile. Iron Bull had already passed out on the table.

The Inquisitor rose gracefully, as if she was wearing a fine dress instead of nothing at all. She smiled at Cullen. “Will you be staying?” she asked.

He rose so fast he knocked his stool over. “I’m walking you back,” he grumbled, shrugging out of his coat as he moved around the table. He dropped it over her shoulders, but the thing absolutely dwarfed her and was quite useless at concealing anything, given its cinched back that left her almost entirely exposed to both the front and rear. Still, it was better than nothing.

“You _are_ a gentleman,” she giggled, eyes twinkling at him.

“I hope this hasn’t put you off future games, your Inquisitorialness,” Varric said, keeping his gaze carefully on her face.

“On the contrary, I think we should do this more often,” she exclaimed. “Goodnight, Varric.”

“Goodnight, you two.”

“We should go through the kitchen,” Cullen said to her.

“That is hardly in the spirit of things,” she said, and sauntered off before he could stop her. As she stepped into the main part of the tavern, conversation dropped and heads turned, but before they’d even made it as far as the exit, cheers and wolf whistles rose up. Lavellan’s chin remained high and dignified, as if it was quite normal for the Herald of Andraste to parade naked around the fortress' tavern. Cullen glared around.

“Alright, knock it off,” he growled, using his body as much as possible to form a wall of modesty for the Inquisitor who didn’t seem to care either way. Once outside, he steered her towards the steps of the battlements. There was no way she was going to walk naked across the main courtyard and through the main hall where every visiting emissary and noble would be waiting, hoping for a glimpse of the Inquisitor. However eager those people could be, they probably didn’t expect to see quite this much of her.

Fortunately Lavellan didn’t protest. She just smiled at his flustered herding and walked up the steps ahead of him, and he tried not to simply stare at her shapely backside swaying from side to side in a way that was almost certainly deliberate.

They fell into step beside one another when they reached the top of the ramparts, heading for his tower. Some of the patrolling recruits looked their way and saluted - then did impressively quick doubletakes.

“Eyes to the ground, recruit!” Cullen snapped at one openly oggling young man.

“Don’t be so gruff,” Lavellan scolded him quietly.

“You’ve certainly overcome your shyness,” he said dryly. It wasn’t so long ago she had tried to cover herself from his hungry gaze in Halamshiral.

“That’s different,” she said simply. “I care what you think. I don’t care what anyone else thinks.”

They soon reached his office, though not nearly soon enough by Cullen’s reckoning. He had a feeling half the Inquisition had now seen the Herald naked, and Maker knew there would be talk of little else for the rest of the week.

Just to sure, he went around locking and bolting every door until there was no chance of someone walking in and getting another eyeful. When he turned around, Lavellan was perched on the edge of his desk, resting her cheek on the fur collar of the coat that did nothing to cover her. It parted around the swell of her hips, exposing her slender legs and the curls at their apex.

“I had fun tonight,” she said.

“Clearly.”

“I liked hearing you talk about your past, and the happy times. You should always remember them.” She cocked her head. “Was it really all true?”

He moved to stand before her, gazing down at her lovely form. “Every word,” he said.

“I would never have thought you the type given to pranks.”

“It was a long time ago,” he said, aware of how far he was now from the boy he’d been originally. “What about you? Was that all true?”

“Every word,” she said with a cheeky smile.

“Should I expect to wake up with the bleeding head of a legendary beast in my bed soon?” he asked her. Unable to resist, he reached out and drew a finger down between her breasts, down towards her belly.

“Haven’t I impressed you enough?” She watched his hand with some interest.

“How soon the romance has died in our relationship,” he sighed. His hand trailed lower until his fingertips brushed the soft hairs of her sex.

“I could kill a dragon for you, if that would bring back the spark.” Her breath hitched as he stepped forward, forcing her legs to part to accommodate him, and his large, warm hand covered her centre. He almost groaned at how wet she was already.

“You, stay away from dragons,” he told her. “They eat people.”

She bit down on her lower lip as his fingers moved against her, seeking the part that made her thighs tremble. Cullen leaned in as if to kiss her, but just as she lifted her chin to receive him, he dropped to his armoured knees and pressed his lips against her bare hip.

Lavellan watched him in bemusement as he kissed lower and lower until he’s reached the top of her thigh. “What are you doing?” she whispered.

“Nothing much,” he said, before hooking his hands around her thighs and pressing his mouth against her core.

For a moment Lavellan didn’t react, probably too surprised and confused. Then he felt her muscles begin to stiffen and her breathing changed, growing shallow as she gasped, “ _Andraste’s knickers!”_

He lifted his head to laugh. “You’ve been spending too much time around humans, Inqui-”

“Shush!” She patted his head urgently back into place. “Don’t you dare stop.”

So he didn’t.


	14. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which family exist to embarrass you.

**Family**

  
  


“You realise if you leave, whatever is left of the templar order here is as good as gone?” Guard Captain Aveline prowled behind her desk. “There’s still so much left to do, we need the manpower.”

For the last two years, Cullen had been visiting this office on a near daily basis - after all, it was right across the hall from his own. Since the Gallows had been abandoned, what was left of the order had moved into the Viscount’s Keep alongside the decimated forces of the City Guard. Cullen hadn’t exactly wanted the old Viscount’s office, but he’d compromised by sharing it with a few of the more trustworthy Knight-Captains.

“Perhaps this is for the best then,” he said. “Kirkwall has never flourished under templar rule. It might be better if the City Guard took command.”

“You’re really dropping me in it, aren’t you? she muttered, thumping into her chair.

If at any point Aveline had ever pressed him to hand over power, he would have given it in an instant. She, however, was no fool. She’d seen how running Kirkwall provided little real power and a lot of headache, and if she wanted to get things done with any degree of efficiency it was easier when you were behind and slightly to the left of the real ruler.

“You’d make a better leader than me, Aveline.”

“I know,” she said, looking distractedly off into the middle distance. “Prince Sebastian will make good on his threat to invade, I just know it. He’s just waiting for the templars to collapse.”

“It will happen one way or another.” He rose from his seat. “Although you could always come with me. Seeker Pentaghast-”

“Already approached me. I refused point blank.” Aveline looked at him squarely. “This is my home. Kirkwall took me in when I was nothing but a penniless widow and a refugee, and it made me what I am today. I cannot give up on it when it needs me now.”

In the past, they’d had the occasion to bond over their shared origins. They’d reminisced over terrible Ferelden food, the intolerable weather, the way everything smelled like wet dog… but whereas Cullen still felt like a Ferelden in his heart of hearts, Aveline had moved on. She was a Free Marcher, and she would never go back.

“I don’t do this lightly,” he said.

“I know,” she sighed. “You deserve it, I suppose. You’ve given a lot to this place… and with all due respect, the templars do need to step down. It’s been a sham from the beginning. The City Guard should never have been answerable to the templars. The only reason I’ve put up with it is because Sebastian will have his exalted march upon us the second he smells weakness.”

“Starkhaven has been planning it for years,” he said dismissively. “I have men from the former order at Starkhaven who’ve seen the forces he’s building. One way or another, the prince is coming. It might not be such a bad thing to give in.”

Aveline stared at him, as if she didn’t need to dignify that with a response.

“Or it may be the case that I can do more to protect Kirkwall from within the Inquisition. This is the Divine’s own initiative. Prince Sebastian would have to back down if the chantry itself opposed him.”

But the Guard Captain was shaking her head. “I fear you’re trading down, Cullen. This is a start-up… it may never amount to anything. At the end of the day it could all fail and you’ll be left with nothing. Kirkwall won’t take you back.”

“That may be. But I can no longer stay. You understand that, don’t you?”

She heaved a sigh then leant across her desk to offer her hand. “I won’t say it’s been a pleasure,” she said. “But you’re not so bad. For a templar.”

He shook her hand. “And you could have made the last two years of my life much harder than you did. So you have my thanks as well.”

“Goodness, you’ll bring a tear to my eye if you carry on like that,” she said, deeply unmoved. “Take care of yourself, Knight-Commander. Or whatever it is you are now. For everyone’s sake, I hope you succeed.”

 

* * *

 

  
  


Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel of the Lavellan clan was not nearly as old as he had expected. She was perhaps not much older than he was, in fact, though the strong streak of pure white hair running from her temple indicated she may have been older than she looked. She dressed in armours fashioned like those belonging to the ancient elves, and carried a staff with some very human-looking bones shaped around its core.

On the steps of Skyhold’s main hall, Josephine greeted her and her party. “Andaran atish’an,” she said, curtseying.

The faint tightening around the Keeper’s eyes at once alerted Cullen to Josephine’s mistake. This woman did not like humans to speak her own language. “Greetings,” she replied loftily, sticking to the common tongue obstinately. “Whom am I addressing?”

“I am Ambassador Montilyet,” said Josephine. “Inquisition Liaison. This is Commander Cullen Rutherford, General of the Inquisitions forces.”

Cullen inclined his head only as far as absolutely necessary.

One of the elves behind the Keeper suddenly stepped forward and whispered something in her ear. The Keeper’s eyes lingered on Cullen a moment too long, before she looked back to the Ambassador. Holding her palm near her chest, she spoke. “I am Keeper Istimaethoriel. My hearthmistress, Fiori, and my warleader, Ardeth.” She indicated the man and woman on either side of her.

Cullen looked over the three of them, sparing Ardeth no more than a cursory glance. It was enough to finally put a face to the name, and it was a thin face with a big nose. Good.

“Take me to my First,” the Keeper said, and it was more of an order than anything.

Josephine’s face remained carefully neutral as she turned to Cullen. “The Commander will take you to her now.”

“This way,” he said, and led them into the hall.

As honoured guests, the Lavellan clan was being treated to a formal greeting. The Inquisitor rarely insisted on ceremony but she had made an exception this time, and a full compliment of guards lined the hall, forming a narrow corridor for the clan representatives to pass along on the way to the throne.

The Inquisitor sat perched on the edge of the chair. She had never looked comfortable in that thing, but today she had the look of someone sitting on tacks. Her fingers gripped the armrests too hard and her knees were pressed tightly together. Josephine took up position on one side of the chair and Cullen took the other. Leliana had chosen to remain in the shadows today. Lavellan said her clan posed no threat, but Leliana had not become a master of spies by trusting biased opinions.

“ _Aneth ara, Keeper_ ,” she said awkwardly.

The Keeper did not stop before the dais as any other guest might have. She continued up the steps until she stood before the throne and was looking down on the Inquisitor. Cullen sighed inwardly. The Inquisitor had wanted to demonstrate her status. In seconds, the Keeper had found a way to literally look down at her.

“ _Da’len_ ,” she said, drawing the Inquisitor to her feet gently. “You look unchanged. You look well.”

They embraced, and Cullen was not all that surprised to see the Inquisitor held her just as tightly. Family could be bothersome people, but even at their worst, it was difficult not to love them.

“I _told_ you I was well,” said the Inquisitor a little reproachfully as she drew back.

“I needed to see it for myself. Letters can be faked.”

“Even if you threw away all my letters, surely word reached you that the Inquisitor was a dalish elf?”

“I needed to see it,” the Keeper repeated. “May we go somewhere more private?” She glanced at the advisors pointedly.

The Inquisitor sighed. “My rooms are this way,” she said.

“I trust my people are free to wander?” The Keeper addressed Josephine. Cullen wondered why she was asking the Ambassador and not the Inquisitor.

“I - of course. Clan Lavellan is most welcome here and will have free movement, as do all our guests.”

That settled, the Keeper disappeared with the Inquisitor into her solar, along with her hearthmistress and warleader, and the other elves drifted away to explore, all looking quite uneasy and keeping their hands close to their weapons.

Cullen turned to Josephine who was massaging a temple. “What a severe woman,” she said.

“Was it wise to leave them alone together?” he wondered aloud.

“The woman _did_ raise her. I doubt she would come to harm.”

“I don’t doubt it. I still wonder if it was wise.” He gave the door of the solar a sideways look. “What did you think of that Ardeth fellow?”

“The warleader?” Josephine squinted in confusion. “I don’t know. Strong, I suppose.”

“How strong?” he asked. “Like, stronger than the Iron Bull? Stronger than me, perhaps?”

“I don’t - um.” Her gaze darted across his face. “His sword is bigger than yours, perhaps-”

“Oh, nevermind,” he said quickly, rather ticked off all of a sudden.

The ceremony was dispersed and they went back to work. Cullen returned to the training yard to help Ser Rylen oversee the induction of new recruits. It was a worthy batch and Rylen had things in hand, so Cullen hung back, watching the yard. Every now and then he spotted some of the dalish elves crossing into sight. They weren’t doing much but they attracted a lot of attention simply with their presence. The inquisitor herself may have been dalish, but unfortunately she was viewed as an exception to her people. The rest would suffer the same prejudices they always did.

Cassandra appeared beside him. “I don’t like twitchy elves,” she said. “Are they up to something?”

“They’re an isolationist clan,” Cullen said, drawing on what Lavellan had told him. “They’re probably not used to humans.”

“It’s a mistake for them to come here,” Cassandra said, but shrugged. “If only because it has unsettled our Inquisitor.”

“A pity _your_ family didn’t come, Seeker,” he said.

“If _my_ whole clan turned up, they’d outnumber your men, Commander. Let’s be glad they refused the invitation,” she retorted, and wandered back towards the blacksmiths where she might enjoy some peace and quiet.

The talk of family inevitably brought Mia and the others to mind. A pang of guilt struck him that he still had not managed to write a reply to her yet.

Letters were all they had. He had not seen his sister in twenty years and in his mind, the sister he saw was still a fifteen year old. In that time she’d grown, married, become a mother several times over and her latest sprog was even named after him. Catherine had married too, but most of what he knew of her life came through Mia, who kept sparse details about their eldest sibling, hinting that they had become distant. And poor Dunstan… Cullen’s image of him need not have changed much, as the blight had taken him young, around the same time that madness had taken Cullen. He had never been able to grieve for his brother. When he’d learned of his death, he had felt too detached from his own life to feel the pain, and by the time he felt like he truly belonged in his own skin again, the knowledge was too old to hurt him.

But Dunstan’s coin still resided in the fold of his hems. He could feel it when he ran his fingers over the fabric, always there. Never changing.

Suddenly a dwarven messenger called his name. “Commander, the Inquisitor wishes to see you.”

“Now?” he scowled. “Is she alright?”

“No. Well - yes - but she seems a little frustrated.”

So she planned to drag him into her family drama. “Exactly how annoyed do you think she would be if you were to tell her I was busy?”

The dwarf looked at him in despair. “The Lady Inquisitor is the kindest, most patient woman I know, but I think she might strangle me today if I told her that.”

“Then we can’t have that.”

Leaving Rylen to the recruits, he made his way back to the Inquisitor’s solar. The guards admitted him without question as they always did when he visited - which was increasingly often these days - and he ascended the steps. Straight into the middle of an argument.

The second Cullen appeared at the top of the stairs, Keeper Istamaethoriel whirled to face him. “You are not needed. You may go.”

The Inquisitor, standing by her hearth, actually bristled. “He is not yours to dismiss!” she said, and it was the angriest he had ever seen her, and she wasn’t very good at it. “Stay right where you are, Commander!”

“This is a clan matter - it is not for outsiders.”

“The commander is my general and closest advisor,” the Inquisitor said tightly, folding her arms defensively across her body. “He is _not_ an outsider.”

Yet he certainly felt one at that moment, and the Keeper promptly turned away and proceeded to ignore him. “It is a farce, da’len. Nothing good will come of this. Do you think the Gods look kindly upon your actions?”

“I would expect the gods to be wise enough to appreciate what the Inquisition is doing, regardless of whose name we do it in,” said the Inquisitor frostily.

“The gods are not forgiving when it comes to blasphemy. You bear Mythal’s mark on your skin - yet you follow this shemlen witch, Andraste?”

“Mythal stands for justice. And it’s justice that we seek - for all those lives lost at the conclave! For the peace that has been snatched from us by a monster!”

“For shem!” the Keeper bit out.

“Yes, for _shem_!” The Inquisitor was steadily turning red. “For dwarves, for qunari, for elves, and for anyone who needs our help!”

Ardeth stepped forward. “This is not your fight. You belong with your clan Lethallan.”

“I belong where I am needed,” said Lavellan quietly. “And that is here.”

Ardeth reached for her hands, and she allowed him to take them. Cullen remained where he was, but his eyes narrowed on the Inquisitor. “You have experienced much hardship here and suffered many traumas,” he said. “You are not really yourself. This place is unmaking you and turning you into something you are not. You used to care about our clan. Now you only care for these people?”

“No. My eyes were simply opened to a world outside the clan,” she said.

“You have been tricked,” Ardeth’s eyes darted to where Cullen stood, and he stepped forward to whisper to the Inquisitor, but not quiet enough that the commander could not hear him. “They are using you. The second these shem are done with you, they will turn on you as they always do to the People. They will make you a martyr. Better one of us die for their cause than one of their own.”

The Inquisitor pulled her hands away and paced restlessly towards where Cullen stood. “I am the only one who can do this. You should be pleased for me, and what I do in the name of our people.”

“Apart from your vallaslin, I see very little of our culture left in you,” the Keeper said, wearing a face like someone who smelled something rotten. “You have disowned us.”

“It is not about you,” Lavellan hissed. “Did you not see the scar in the sky when you travelled through the mountains? _That_ is what occupies my mind! Not you! Not humans! This is bigger than that!”

“Those who reach for glory and forget who they are will always be doomed to self-destruction,” the Keeper recited. “You have forgotten your roots and betrayed yourself. You stand beside a _templar_ , of all things!”

“I am fortunate to stand with Commander Cullen. He’s one of the most honourable and and worthy people I have ever known,” the Inquisitor said steadily.

“She would say that,” piped up the hearthmistress from behind the Keeper. “He is her lover.”

The keeper visibly recoiled. Ardeth’s hand actually went to his sword.

“Is this true?” Istimaethoriel demanded.

“I heard it from her own stablehands,” Fiori said.

Lavellan stood her ground. “It is not your concern!”

“He is human!” The keeper’s lip coiled. “It’s not enough that you consort with their kind but to - to - _consort_ with them?”

“That is abominable.” Ardeth glared at him like he wished a thousand fiery deaths upon him. Cullen met his stare stolidly.

“I think you should all leave.” The Inquisitor said. “Commander, please help me escort the Keeper on her way.”

This was why he’d been summoned, he thought. The Keeper probably would have ignored the Inquisitor’s request to leave, but when Cullen moved towards her, she quickly moved out of his reach.

“We won’t give up on you so easily, _da’len_ ,” the Keeper was saying as Cullen herded her and the others down the stairs with the Inquisitor following at a safe distance.

Cullen marched them all the way through the main hall to the entrance, where the Keeper turned to look at her First. “We will wait for you in the camp to the south,” she said. “We will not turn you away if you come to us.”

“I won’t,” the Inquisitor ground out.

The Keeper’s temper thinned. “Fen’harel take you, you silly girl! May you see sense yet!”

She stormed with grace down the steps, past Solas who was on his way up, smiling pleasantly.

Ardeth reserved his final look of disgust for Cullen. “ _Ar tu na'lin emma mi._ ”

“Ardeth!” The Inquisitor stepped in front of Cullen like a furious bear protecting its cub and glared her warleader down. “Leave.”

Reluctantly, the warleader departed, shoving past Solas with a mutter of, “Out of my way, _seth’lin_.”

“Always lovely to see the People,” said Solas, regarding the departing elves.

With a frustrated huff, the Inquisitor pivoted on her heel and strode back through the main hall towards her solar. A worried Cullen followed. He had never seen her angry, and now she resembled a steaming kettle that threatened to explode because it didn’t know how to vent.

“What did Ardeth say exactly?” he asked her, as she stomped up the steps ahead of him.

“Nothing! A silly, childish threat, and he was too cowardly to say it in a way you’d understand,” she growled, pacing back and forth before the end of her bed. “I knew this would be a mistake. She has always treated me like a child and she fears humans - of course this would be an absolute disaster! I did not want to part with her on these terms!”

“Are you alright?” he asked her.

“No!” she cried. “They think it would be better if I had died at the conclave! Then I wouldn’t bring them so much shame - running around with humans a-and sleeping with them! What a disappointment I am to them!”

A hot tear streaked down her cheek and she dashed it away angrily. “And what is worse; they are right. I have changed.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” he said, taking her face in his hands to thumb away the next tear. “You are more than you were. You’ve grown infinitely in wisdom and confidence and knowledge. They will see as much in time.”

“They disrespected you, which I cannot abide,” she sniffed. “Why did she bring Ardeth? She knows he infuriates me!”

“Maybe she thought to tempt you back with him?” he suggested nonchalantly.

The Inquisitor gave him a puzzled look for a moment, before laughing. “Tempt me away from you?”

The laughter suddenly died from her eyes and with a firm hand she steered him backwards toward the bed. The mattress hit the back of his knees and he fell, splayed across the sheets, and the Inquisitor quickly straddled him. “I would never be tempted back to that life,” she said, unfastening his belt. “I don’t care what they think of you or us, I don’t want anyone or anything else.”

Her unexpected assertiveness certainly sent heat rushing to all the important parts, but he caught her wrists and stilled them. “Are you thinking about me, right now? Or your Keeper?”

She looked at him, mouth dropping open in automatic denial. Then her gaze shifted away.

“You don’t have anything to prove, love. Especially not to me.” He reached up and stroked her achingly perfect face, bringing her focus back to him. “And you need to resolve this. She made you feel small, I know, so rise above it. Show her you’re not the child she thinks you are.”

After a pause, a gentle kiss was laid upon his lips and the Inquisitor regarded him warmly. “You do have good advice sometimes,” she said.

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I’ll go see Keeper Deshanna tonight… I’ll bring her the very information she sent me to the conclave to find. Solas showed me a book; it’s all in elvish. It’s perfect. She won’t even be able to read it and she’ll still have to thank me.”

“Rise above it,” Cullen reminded.

“That’s what I’m doing. The gift will appease her… and perhaps when she’s not surrounded by humans she’ll be a little easier to talk. Thank you, Cullen,” Lavellan sighed, and began to climb off his lap.

He caught her by her hips. “I-I know I said you don’t have to prove anything but,” he coughed. “If you wanted to…”

A smile quirked the corner of Lavellan’s lips. “I don’t have three hours to spare,” she said.

“I can be quick,” he promised.

“No, you can’t.”

“No,” he sighed in defeated agreement. “I can’t.”

With a quiet laugh she eased off him and took a moment to straighten her clothing. At the top of the stairs she looked back at where he still sat uncomfortably on the bed. “Are you coming?”

“No, not yet.” He drew the edge of his coat over his groin.

The Inquisitor winced and mouthed an apology. “I will come see you later tonight, I promise.”

 

* * *

 

As dusk settled around Skyhold, the torches went up and the workers retired for the night. Cullen rubbed a hand over his face and stood up for perhaps the hundredth time in the last hour and moved to the arrowslit in the wall behind his desk. Once darkness fell there usually wasn’t much to see except a black blanket of forest covering the southern slopes. But tonight small lights danced between the trees.

Clan Lavellan was not a small clan, he realised. Judging by the fires alone, there were perhaps a more than a hundred people down there.

The Inquisitor had yet to return. She had set off before sunset with a book under one arm and a determined rigidity to her face. At least as long as he could still see the fires burning in the dalish camp he could safely assume she had not been hogtied and kidnapped and spirited away at that very moment.

Ardeth didn’t concern him. He may have been a dalish elf and quite alien with everything that entailed, but Cullen knew his type. He was like a terrier, snapping at heels for a reaction, but would retreat the second he got one. Even if Lavellan may have promised herself to him once, it was clear she now held him in no higher esteem than a slightly annoying aquaintance. It was unlikely that while Cullen pored over reports and documents in his lonely office, she was being seduced by her old lover on a snowy slope beneath moonlight, cooing over the size of his sword and nose.

Cullen shook his head. Perhaps he wasn’t as secure as he liked to think. He trusted Lavellan. That was all that mattered.

Forcing himself away from the narrow window, he dropped into his chair again and propped his boots on the corner of the desk as he continued reading the next stack of reports. He made notes on a few and sorted them into new piles- some to be passed on to Leliana or Josephine - some to go straight in the bin.

There was a note from Sera, asking for a requisition of a single pair of pants. _‘You’ll want this one filled. Trust me.’_ That one went in the bin, as he could only assume she was just trying to waste his time.

Another letter came from Vivienne, expressing concern over the management of Skyhold’s new mage tower. ‘ _I really think you should be involved in this, Knight-Commander.’_ The woman liked to think she was in a circle, where she was First Enchanter and he was Knight-Commander. Cullen scribbled a curt reply on the back of the parchment, once again reminding the woman that the mages were to govern themselves as per the Inquisitor’s instructions. He may not have necessarily agreed with her on the matter, but either way, he wanted no part in ‘managing’ mages.

The next report he picked up was written in his own hand. He’d sent it to Leliana and she had sent it back with a new cover letter. ‘ _I think I’ve found the place. You may be interested in seeing it for yourself._ ’ She’d written map co-ordinates below the message, and he’d spent enough time staring at the map in the war room to know the rough area they pointed to.

He shuffled it into the pile for the Inquisitor and moved on to the next, a note from Dagna. She explained that the materials he had ordered in had arrived, but he would have to come down to her workshop in the undercroft to explain what he wanted done with them, because frankly, she hadn’t understood his instructions at all.

There was time now to see her, he thought. He knew the small arcanist kept to unsociable hours like he did, and if he went down there now he would find her tinkering away at some artifact with the same irrepressible joy she used to conduct all her business.

But there was the matter of one last letter that had been hanging around his desk for weeks now. It had been trapped under reports, hidden beneath stacks of books, tucked in every drawer at least once before being fetched out again, and after he had torn his office apart during his last nose-dive into withdrawal, he had spent the next three days searching frantically for it.

Mia’s letter would no longer wait. He had to respond to her.

Cullen drummed his fingers on the desk for nearly a minute, debating whether or not tonight was the night. Then he slapped his hand against the desk irritably and fetched out a new sheaf of papers and his ink pot. He began to scratch out a letter, not caring about the neatness of the writing or his spelling, or whether it was at all legible to anyone other than himself. What was important was that the words flowed from him.

 

_Dear Mia,_

_I apologise for my lack of correspondence, I have been terribly busy for the last few weeks._

_As I’m sure you’ve gathered by now, I have fully resigned my position with the order, and I am free for perhaps the first time since we parted ways twenty years ago. We are doing good work here with the Inquisition. I think you would be proud of me. Our forces are now several thousand strong, endorsed by Fereldan’s army and backed by Orlesian troops. I wasn’t sure it was possible, but I have never been more hopeful that we can bring stability back to the world at all levels._

_None of this would have been possible without Inquisitor Lavellan. She is a singular woman. You would like her if you met her. She cheats at chess almost as badly as you._

_When this is all over, Maker willing, I should like to visit South Reach to see you. If this is acceptable and convenient to you, please let me know. I have not yet met my nieces and nephews, which is a mistake I hope to rectify. I would especially like to meet Cullen, provided you have not made good on your threat to change his name, though I would not blame you if you had._

_I hope all is well in South Reach and this letter reaches you in good health. My work will take me to Honnleath soon, so I shall be able to lay flowers on the graves. It will be interesting to go home, but it will not be the same without you there._

 

The door to his office clicked open and Cullen lifted the quill from the parchment, ready to deal with whatever new matter needed his attention.

Lavellan stepped inside, face drawn and weary. She looked at him once then moved to his ladder and began to climb. She was out of sight in seconds, rustling around in his bed chamber above.

“Everything alright?” he called lightly.

He received a neutral grunt.

Cullen stood, extinguished the last of his guttering candles, and followed her up in the ladder.

Lavellan was already in his bed and her clothes lay abandoned on the floor. Cullen took note of this, and without a word began to unclip his armour and set it aside. He didn’t hurry. They had all night and there was no urgency in the way Lavellan watched him. Setting aside the last of his clothes, he slipped beneath the sheets and welcomed her into his arms. The touch of so much bare skin on bare skin was still a new sensation to him, but one he thought he would never tire of. It cooled and warmed him at the same time and he sighed as the tension drained from his body and his lips met hers in the darkness.

She urged him onto his back; she preferred him that way, where she could control their pace and how deep she took him. After spending his days hand-holding recruits and administering orders to his captains and lieutenants, he was more than happy to have her take control and guide him where he needed to be.

He’d slowly been learning her body, when she needed him to speed up and slow down, where he needed to touch her to make her tremble and clench around him until she tensed and gasped her release. He pushed her to that peak twice before he had to stop, feeling too close to his own end.

When Lavellan reached for him, he gently pinned her hands to the bed.

“Why won’t you let me?” she whispered through the darkness.

“I’m alright,” he said, and kissed her unresponsive lips.

“You never let me…”

He was used to her curling against his side in moments like this, but now she sighed and lay back, looking up at the heavens through the hole in his ceiling and the fronds of leaves from the trees that grew through his wall. She was distant. Subdued.

“Did your Keeper appreciate the gift?” he asked her quietly.

“She didn’t throw it in my face, so I think she liked it,” Lavellan said. “And I was right… among the clan, she was more reasonable. I suppose she was civil for the sake of the others, and when I showed her the mark… well, she understood better. The dalish don’t like seeing their own ‘defect’ to human communities, but they understand responsibility, and she believes the mark is a burden handed down from our own gods, not yours.”

Cullen stroked her soft hair. It smelled of the scents of the snowy forest, of pine and ice. “So she’s accepted your place here?”

“Until I have fulfilled my responsibility, she says. When the mark is gone, I am free to return to her side.”

His fingers spasmed with the sudden urge to hold her close. He had not thought about a time when she might not have the mark, when their work was done and the Inquisition would be disbanded. The thought of her returning to her clan filled him with dread.

“So you’re on good terms now?” He forced the apprehensive feelings into the back of his mind and kept his tone light.

“I wouldn’t say that. The matter of you came up, again…” Lavellan rolled to face him, and by the light of the stars he saw her looking intently at him. “She reminded me of things, I admit I have not allowed myself to think about…”

“Such as?”

She searched his face as her own lay bare a vulnerability he was not used to seeing. “What will become of us?” she breathed. “When all this is over and Corypheus is either dead or we have been forced to flee to the corners of the world, what happens to us?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Do we retire? Buy a farm and pretend to be normal? The ex-Herald of Andraste and a former General of a dissolved army? A human and an elf? Or do we move on, and go back to where we belong?”

He frowned. “I don’t want to move on… not from you. Not even from the Inquisition. You may have a place to return to, but my home was the circle, and that doesn’t exist anymore. This is all I have.”

“And I could never go back to my clan. Despite my Keeper’s pretty words, I’ve branded myself an outsider in more ways than one.” She stroked a hand over his cheek. “So where does that leave us?”

“Together.” He caught her hand and held it close to his heart. “I don’t know what will happen, but I know we’ll find a way to be together. There’s no sense in worrying about it now… we’ll cross that bridge when it is time to do so.”

“I don’t like bridges,” she sighed despondently. “They tend to collapse underneath me.”

He chuckled weakly, although the feeling of panic when he thought back to the night he had almost lost her at Adamant was beginning to fade. With a whispered encouragement he pulled her closer, enjoying the weight of her head on his chest.

“Can I stay here tonight?” she asked him. “I’m too tired to go back.”

He stilled. “You shouldn’t… I’ll disturb you.”

“I don’t care.”

“I could hurt you,” he warned.

“No, you couldn’t.”

And so she determinedly fell asleep. Cullen fought it for a while but it was not too long before the soft rhythm of her breathing and the warmth of her body lulled him to sleep as well.

  
  
  



	15. Lyrium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varric's cooking goes unappreciated.

**Lyrium**

****  
  
  


The demons were swarming and the shrine was in flames, and everywhere Cullen turned he could hear the wretched song of the red lyrium - stabbing at him like a drumbeat and demanding obeisance. Splinters of pain seared behind his eyes, but he kept fighting, slamming his shield against a red templar who was attempting to catch him from behind.

The Inquisitor, it turned out, was a very protective sort of woman. In between freezing her foes and smashing them to pieces with her stave, she kept a careful eye on Cullen, casting protections and wards on him, even when it was quite unnecessary. He practically vibrated under the weight of so much magical protection - a rather odd sensation for a templar who was more used to being hit by offensive spells than benevolent ones. His templar training made him somewhat immune to both, however, which was why Lavellan was reapplying her protections so frequently.

When the final demon in the courtyard fell, Cullen places his hands on his knees to catch his breath. “Samson knew we were coming,” he panted bitterly. “He’s destroyed everything.”

“Perhaps not everything,” the Inquisitor said. “He’s left in quite a hurry.”

“Yes… Samson was never a particularly thorough man,” Cullen agreed. After all, if he’d been as thorough as Cullen in covering up his misdemeanors, he never would have been expelled from the order in the first place.

“Let’s keep moving,” said Lavellan, hurrying deeper into the shrine.

“Oh, to be young,” grumbled Blackwall, patting Cullen’s back as he passed.

The sounds of battle ahead drove them to run; the Inquisitor had met a troop of red templars right on the other side of the doors. But as always, barely a hair flew out of place as she held them at bay. Her timing was impeccable, and she moved with a fluid grace that made her difficult to hit, even without the aid of her protections.

It wasn’t often that Cullen got to see the Inquisitor in action. He’d seen her fight in Haven, but she had still been relatively new to combat. She’d come from being a First in a Dalish clan, where most of her magic had been employed in healing and warding, and now she was giving Blackwall a run for his beard. And even between fending off a couple of stage two abominations, she still found the time to turn and throw a barrier over Cullen.

A dull roar at the far end of the hall alerted him to the presence of a behemoth - a templar so mutated he - she - whatever it had been was now just a walking titan of crystal with a beating human heart.

“Varric!” Cullen shouted, pointing to the upper walkway that would give the dwarf a vantage point. Between the two of them they might be able to keep the behemoth bottled in at the end of the room. If it reached the Inquisitor, it would overwhelm them.

He pressed on ahead, past benches and tables laden with smashed equipment and burning papers. If they were going to find anything of use on Samson, the evidence was burning all around them, but right then the Behemoth needed stopping.

Crossbow bolts stuck the flank of the massive abomination, courtesy of Varric. As it turned in a lumbering circle, reaching up to swipe for the dwarf, Varric backed away sharply. “Now would be good, Curly!”

Cullen slammed his sword into the back of what had maybe once been a knee. Shards of red lyrium went flying, and the impact reverberated up his arm as if he had struck stone. It was enough to draw its attention away from Varric at least.

Then the enormous clubbed arm slammed against his shield, sending him flying.

One of the research tables broke his fall. He heard the smash of glass and the bite of a hundred tiny cuts along his arm. He hissed as he began to sit up.

The Inquisitor was suddenly beside him, her hand on his shoulder. “Are you ok?”

“Fine,” he grunted.

And then he felt it. The icy fire rushing up his arm, flooding his body with warmth and adrenalin. He looked at his hand dizzily, and belatedly realised there were glass shards embedded in his palm. Blood soaked his leather gloves, mingling with the silvery blue of the lyrium that the glass had once contained.

The inquisitor hadn’t noticed. “Stay down for a moment,” she told him, before racing off to intercept the behemoth.

Cullen barely heard her. He crouched, clutching his hand to his chest, as he felt the lyrium ignite his blood.

  
  


* * *

 

 

Divine Justinia reminded him of a pleasant old aunt - someone who, if they had not been decked in the regalia of the Divine and sitting in the most important chair in all of Thedas, would have been easy to overlook. But he feared that this was quite deliberate; that her passive, benign demeanor masked a more watchful figure, like soft muslin wrapped around a sharp blade. She had smiled at him in benediction as her eyes cut through him, dissecting his worth.

He had not been at his best when he had knelt before the sunburst throne, greeting both her and her fleet of attendants in the Grand Cathedral. She had kindly not drawn attention to his tremors, his pallid complexion or sunken cheeks, but she had dismissed him and his people much sooner than Cassandra had expected. The Seeker had seemed outright disturbed that the Divine had been so dismissive.

“What does that mean?” he asked her.

“It could mean she does not want you in her new order,” she had replied with a terse shrug. “It would be most unfortunate.”

‘Unfortunate’ was putting it lightly. Cullen had resigned the templar order, and there was no going back on that decision. Not only that, but he had dragged nine of his best, most loyal soldiers with him from Kirkwall under the promise that they would secure work in this new chantry directive and leave behind a crumbling order.

Even that might have been forgivable, but the journey from Kirkwall to Val Royeaux had not been kind. Bad weather had forced their ship to alight in Jader with the understanding that they would be able to continue tomorrow. But then tomorrow came and the storms remained. A one day diversion became two, became four, became a week. The lyrium supply they’d brought with them to last what should have been a short trip down the Waking Sea ran out a week too early. Rationing had commenced.

Rylen and Veddir had been struck the hardest. Rylen’s stomach cramps had been debilitating and Veddir had started swearing blind that they were being stalked by the ghast of Knight Commander Meredith. What little lyrium Cullen had left, he gave to the two templars, and did not complain about his own symptoms before his men. Every day it grew worse, until the alternating chills and hot flashes became a constant companion, and he could keep nothing in his stomach for long before throwing it back up.

That was how they’d arrived in Val Royeax and met the Divine’s left hand on a pier. Sister Leliana had not been impressed with the sight of ten templars in varying stages of withdrawal, and though she had promised to use her contacts to track down a quick supply of lyrium, she had tacitly expressed her disapproval of Seeker Cassandra’s decision to induct soldiers with such an expensive… _requirement_ into their new order.

But for however cool Leliana had been, Cullen was furious. He had always known about the templars dependency on their own order, but this was his first time experiencing the true gravity of the situation. Barely two weeks away from the order and they were crippled by shackles that would bind them wherever they went. There was no ‘quitting’ the templar order. There was no such thing as freedom.

Another week without lyrium and he feared some of his soldiers would certainly die or go mad. They had been housed in the White Spire - the tower that formerly held the Orlesian circle, though since the mages had rebelled and the templars had abandoned the capital city, there was nothing left in the spire but a small, motley collection of academics and tranquil. When the lyrium had arrived the next day, Cullen had watched with poorly concealed revulsion as his fellow templars all but snatched the vials from the courier and drunk the lyrium right there in the open.

It was a taboo to ingest lyrium in front of others, even other templars. In their desperation they didn’t care, but Cullen finally understood why it was an unspoken rule; seeing the others living in the thrall of a little bottle made him see their dependence on lyrium for what it was - a filthy addiction that was destroying their minds and bodies.

Cullen had returned to his own room with the small bottle of lyrium. He knew that if he drank it, the symptoms wracking his body would abate and he would wake tomorrow with only a few sore muscles as a souvenir of his troubles.

But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t summon the courage to pick up the tiny bottle and drink, knowing what it bound him to.

So as his men and women quickly put themselves back together and prepared to meet the divine, Cullen continued to wither. The bottle of lyrium remained by his bed, untouched, as his appetite waned and his armour became too big, and terrible rashes broke out across his skin. His lips split, his hair grew dull, and even his fingernails began to bleed. It was all nothing compared to the splitting ache behind his eyes and the migraines that often left him blind for hours on end.

Rylen fretted over him daily and tried to get him to take the lyrium by alternate coaxing and bullying. Short of sitting on him and forcing it down his throat - which would have been easy to do as Cullen was in no condition to fight off a kitten - there was no convincing Cullen.

“ _You_ ,” snarled Rylen in his face one night, “are going to _die_. We shall all praise your moral superiority then, I am sure!”

This was his condition when finally sent before the Divine, so he was not at all surprised that she had taken one look at his gaunt, discoloured face and decided her Right Hand must have made a mistake. She wanted young, fit men and women to fill the ranks of her new order. She did not want him.

After the meeting, Cassandra had returned him to his room in the White Spire. She was both his escort and his crutch, as he could not make his way up the stairs to his room without someone to lean on. Before she left, the Seeker folded her arms and gave him one of her unflappable looks that he was beginning to grow used to.

“You must stand down,” she told him. “Knight-Captain Rylen will take over and head our military division. I do not think the Divine will accept your people any other way.”

Cullen didn’t hesitate. “Of course.” He would not hold his men and women back for his own selfish purposes. They needed to remain in the chantry’s employ, not least because it could keep them supplied with lyrium.

Cassandra had touched his shoulder compassionately, but with the faint reluctance of someone touching brittle glass. “I… admire what you are doing,” she said. “I am sorry it came to this. You may stay here as long as you like, we will do our best to make you comfortable.”

He’d laughed, because he realised then that she thought he was going to die. She wanted to tuck him up in a blanket like an old dog and wait for nature to take its course.

And Cullen was too tired and weak to care if she was right.

Yet, however bad the pain got or the physical impairments that sometimes stopped him short, he still awoke every morning to the realisation that he had survived another night. His heart still beat. He still got up and washed his face in a basin of cold water and still tried to eat what little breakfast he could. He still somehow found the energy to walk the streets of Val Royeaux and think to himself what a pity it would be to die in such a horrible city, where people hid their faces behind vapid masks and beggars pissed against glorious mosaic walls inlaid with jewels and gold. Where skinny dogs wandered the streets, living on scraps and being kicked out of the way of more important people.

Every facet of the Orlesian capital made him long for Ferelden and its simplicity. He would trade every one of Val Royeaux’s painted spires for Denerim’s flint escarpments and thatched roofs. Even Kirkwall was more appealing to him, and that place had been chipped out of cliffs and decorated with a thousand statues of screaming slaves.

And then the Divine had visited him.

He would have said she had arrived unannounced, but seconds before she had entered his room, Sister Leliana had appeared first. “Divine Justinia the Fifth wishes to see you,” she said, which was all the warning he had before the woman herself had wandered in, looking quite different without her mountain of attendants or the grand ceremonial robes he had last seen her in.

“Please don’t get up,” she told him, when he’d tried to rise from the bed. She herself had lowered herself into a creaking wooden chair by the window, and seemed as comfortable there as she did on the Sunburst throne.

“Cassandra has informed me that you are stepping down your position,” she began, her voice soft but succinct. “You travelled a long way to give up here.”

“Perhaps some things are more important than the next job, Your Holiness,” he said.

“Such as your principles?” she asked. “Certainly more important than your health, it seems.”

“All templars are sick. We might as well be honest about that.”

“And what do you hope to prove with this show of honesty?” Her eyes wandered over to the philter of lyrium on the bedside table. “You wouldn’t be the first templar to attempt this. But you have been dependant on lyrium for over ten years. Younger men than you have given up lyrium and been driven mad.”

“I know madness,” he said. “And I am not there yet.”

“Your mind might last out, but your body won’t,” she warned him.

“We’ll find out won’t we, Your Holiness.”

The Divine sat back in her chair, hands folded over his knees. “My Cassandra admires you. She has known many templars, but she says that you are different. You’ve seen the worst of the order, you know intimately the fear that drives the renegade templars, yet you’ve risen above it. You didn’t abandon your post when thousands of your brothers and sisters did, and now you do this to yourself.”

He sighed. “I apologise if I am not what you expected, Your Holiness.”

“Indeed you are not,” she said with a smile. “But I am building a new order. The templars have abandoned the chantry and we need a new start and we must learn from the mistakes of the past. I have always believed that tying soldiers to our cause with addiction instead of earning their loyalty has done more harm than good. Good men end up broken before their time, and the bad ones… well, they follow the lyrium, not the Maker.”

Justinia leaned forward, the gold filigree of her robes tinkled in the quiet room. “To have this order commanded by a templar free of addiction is a powerful message and a powerful example to set.”

Cullen frowned but shook his head. “Cassandra is right, Your Holiness. I am in no fit condition to lead anything.”

“At the moment certainly,” she agreed. “Next week I will be announcing a summit and calling on all rebel forces to put down their arms and meet in peace to find a solution. It will take place at the beginning of summer. You have till then to prove you are the man for the job.”

“Your Holiness-”

“This is my will. Would you refuse it?”

Cullen looked down. “Of course not, Your Holiness.”

“Then the matter is settled. I will see you again before the conclave… providing you are not dead, of course.”

 

* * *

 

The Shrine of Dumat was burning now, with flames that climbed higher than the surrounding trees. A mile away on their hillside, the Inquisitor and her group paused to watch the smoke billowing up into the atmosphere.

“What happens to red lyrium when it burns, I wonder?” Dorian murmured.

“Can’t be anything good,” Blackwall grunted.

“At least we’re upwind,” Varric sighed.

As they turned to continue up the slope to make camp for the evening, the Inquisitor stayed with Cullen. “Are you alright?” she asked.

He had been distracted ever since the shrine, and it was a battle to keep his focus. When the Inquisitor spoke, he started as if she’d set off a fireball next to his ear. “I’m fine,” he said, flexing his stiff hand.

“I’ll take a look at that hand when we stop for the night,” she offered. “I know some healing magic.”

“It’s nothing so severe,” he reassured her.

She tilted her head, still sensing something was wrong. “I know we didn’t find Samson like you hoped… but this is still a good result. We’ll be prepared next time we meet him.”

“I know,” he said gently, trying to ignore the lyrium song that strummed in his veins. “I was just hoping for more answers.”

“To which questions?” she asked,

Cullen looked at her, wondering if she would be able to understand. “I shared quarters with Samson back in Kirkwall. He smuggled letters between mages and their loved ones. So did I. He rebelled against Meredith, and I did too in the end. He was… a man with weaknesses, but he was a good man. And now he stands with Corypheus, and willingly poisons his own people. And I stand here, with you.”

Lavellan nodded faintly. “Do you wonder… if you might have ended up like him?”

“Every day,” he whispered. “So many men and women that I knew, who I once trusted and depended on… red lyrium has destroyed everything they were. You have already killed more than one old friend of mine. And by some small twist of fate, I could have been just another mindless monster here today.”

“But you’re not,” she said quietly. “That’s no twist of fate, Cullen, that’s who you are. You and Samson began in the same place with the same opportunities, and that you’re standing here with me now is because you are the better man. Not because of some cosmic coin toss.”

She closed her hand over his, and he drew her close enough to rest his forehead against hers. “I would be lost without you,” he whispered.

“You know better than to trust me with navigation,” she teased warmly. “Come on. Let’s make camp.”

Once out of the valley, they found a clearing and set about building a fire and erecting the tents they’d brought with them. As the others busied themselves about the camp, Cullen took the horses - and the deer - further into the woods to the basin beneath a waterfall to drink. He took the opportunity to peel off his gloves and examine his injured hand. Dipping it into the water caused plumes of red to lift from his skin, revealing a series of narrow slits in his palm that began to sting afresh. A few flecks of glass remained and he picked them out with care. Any lyrium drops left had already been absorbed into the wounds or washed away in the rapid stream.

It was only a small amount, but he was hyper-aware of its effect. His senses were sharper, the fatigue that had haunted him for months had faded, and the song settled over him like a comfortable old friend. Too comfortable. And yet he itched… because it was not enough. The brief thought of searching their supplies for more lyrium crossed his mind, even though he knew he would find none, and to do so would go against everything he had been trying to build for himself for the last year.

When he finally led the mounts back to the camp, the fire was burning steadily and Varric had already put their supper on. Blackwall and Dorian were arguing about the best way to take down an ogre.

“Arrow to the ear. Gets their balance right off.”

“A fireball to the groin is even better, my good beard.”

The Inquisitor sat just inside her tent, absorbed in reading. The notes and research they had liberated from the fires in the shrine were spread out before her. She idly twirled a lock of hair around her finger as she read, a blanket gathered around her shoulders, and when Cullen came to sit beside her, she generously shared her blanket with him.

“Take a look at these,” she said, passing him some of the notes she had already digested.

He tried to read them, but as the sky darkened the words on the pages seemed to jump and flicker. Cullen pressed his fingers against his eyes, trying to ward off the impending headache. The lyrium in his blood was too small an amount to have much of a lasting effect, and it was already fading. What was left behind was the reawakened ache he had tried so hard to master. The body that had begun to forget the pleasure and power of lyrium only needed the smallest taste to remember... then begin to rebel all over again.

“I’m going to turn in,” he told Lavellan.

“What about your supper?” she asked.

“I have no appetite,” he said truthfully. Entering his tent, he stripped off his armour and crawled beneath the woolen blankets. When he looked up at the canvas above his head, dots of light crawled across his vision. It made no matter if he closed his eyes, he could still see them, moving like insects across his eyelids.

How he fell asleep, he did not know. But when he next opened his eyes, the light of the campfire had been extinguished and all was quiet. The Inquisitor was curled beneath his blankets beside him, facing away and breathing a slow, deep rhythm,

Heaving a sleepy sigh, Cullen reached out, tracing the curve of her hip and waist. He felt her breathing change as she came awake. Perhaps he should have felt guilty, but he knew from experience that she did not mind being awoken, provided he could make it worth her while.

“Love,” he whispered through the gloom of the tent, and heard her stir and begin to turn towards him. Her hair fanned out across his arm and the blankets slipped down her shoulder.

And just for a moment, it was Surana smiling up at him, eyes dancing with flirtatious laughter and mischief.

Cullen snapped upright, his heart thumping against his ribs.

“What’s wrong?” Lavellan sat up, struggling to open her eyes.

“Air. I need air,” he gasped. He moved so fast he stumbled through the blankets and threw himself through the flaps into the night. The second he rose, the pain began, hammering at his skull with an intensity he hadn’t felt in a long time. He grunted, clutching at his temples, and staggered on through the leaf litter. His shoulder hit a tree and he almost fell, but he did not stop moving. Not until icy cold water splashed up his legs and he plunged into a pool up to his midriff.

The thunder of a nearby waterfall encroached on his senses, but did little to drown out the drum of blood in his ears. The lyrium song was gone entirely now, replaced by an agonising silence.

A splash nearby made him spin. Sharp stones along the bed of the pool jabbed at his feet.

Indistinct whispers skirted the edge of his mind like shadows around the pool. No one's there, he told himself. No one.

"Cullen?" Her voice was soft, like the touch of summer sun on the skin. The whispers faded for a moment, allowing him to locate her. She stood at the edge of the pool, her bed clothes rumpled and sliding down one shoulder.

"Are you real?" He had to know.

The question took her aback, and she blinked at him several times. "Did you have a bad dream?" She held out her hand to him, inviting him to leave the water.

Cullen backed deeper into the inky pool. "You should go."

"I don't think so," she responded.

"I... I'm seeing things. They're not real, and maybe you're not real. You're already too perfect to be real, sometimes I wonder if I'm still in the tower and I gave in long ago to temptation."

Lavellan's ageless eyes narrowed. "Unless being assigned to Kirkwall was your greatest desire, I don't see how you could believe that..." She took a step into the water, up to her slender ankles. "Tell me what's happened, Cullen."

He shook his head, averting his eyes. "You wouldn't understand."

"Tell me."

His breath left him in a rush. Shame welled up like a blood from a wound. "I looked at you... and I saw her. I saw Surana."

Lavellan's went still. "Do you see her now?"

"No."

"Well then," she lowered her hand to her side. "Who do you see?"

Cullen looked at her, terrified his vision would blur again and he'd be looking at the cheeky Mage who stole his heart so easily when he was nineteen. But all he saw was, "You. I see you; the woman I love more than life itself."

She flushed prettily and almost looked away from him. "Th-that's right, I suppose. Won't you come out of the water now? You'll catch your death."

He realised that he wasn't entirely sure how he'd come to end up in the pool beneath the waterfall. He hadn't truly been awake until this moment, but he knew it was Lavellan's calming manner and her lack of judgement that had awoken him, not the cold water.

With a humiliated nod he waded back to the edge and let her unfasten the ties if his wet clothes. As he watched her strip off his soaked undergarments he wondered how he could have mistaken her for Surana. They were night and day. The boy he had once been would have preferred Surana with her liveliness and infectious spirit. He would have adored her as a dog adores it's master, in constant thrall of her brilliance and adventures.

But the man he was now wanted gentleness. He wanted the night, with it's quietness and hidden mysteries. He wanted the reserved smiles and the gentle wit she saved just for him. He wanted the eyes that spoke more than her words ever could, and read his soul like it was inscribed upon his face, and found nothing there that would ever cause her to look away. He wanted acceptance of the mess he was and the certainty that he was loved, after believing he was unloveable for so long.

Lavellan's gaze met his. All of his clothes were now gathered in her arms and he stood naked before her. But it was not his lack of attire that made him feel so exposed to her.

"There was lyrium on your gloves," she said quietly. "It's hurting you, isn't it?"

"I was careless," he said.

Lavellan's brow crumpled. "I should have protected you," she breathed. "I'm so sorry, Cullen."

He stepped forward and kissed her. No one had ever worried for him the way she did. No one had ever cared.

The sodden clothes dropped from her grasp as her arms as she reached up to slide her cool fingertips over his cheeks. All the pain and dark whispers seemed to drain away through her touch, and he wondered if she ever felt such powerful connection when his skin met hers.

His hands roved over her faster, pulling her against him. The thin fabric of her nightwear did nothing to shield her from his body, or the heat of the thick arousal against her belly. He heard her groan. Then her hand was reaching between them, reaching to touch him-

Cullen took her wrist, intending to draw it back up to his shoulder, but suddenly Lavellan was stepping back, her eyes filled with a dark heat.

"I want to give you pleasure, Cullen," she said, her voice huskier than he was used to. "Please."

He didn't release her wrist. "You do," he promised. The look on her face remained unconvinced.

"You never let me touch you," she whispered. "You never... you never let yourself go with me."

The headache was returning like a building pressure behind his eyes. Lights danced at the edge of his vision. "Some things I can't..." He seized up as a memory intruded on his thoughts, and he felt the ghost of fingers curling around him, of mouths closing over him.... of claws and teeth and unimaginable pain combining with pleasure until one was indistinguishable from the other.

"Cullen?" Lavellan's soft voice broke through the clouds of his past.

He shook his head, more in an attempt to clear it. "Some things you can't fix, love."

A pained look shot through her eyes, as she grabbed the hand that held her. "There is nothing to fix, you are not  _broken,_ " she insisted fervently. "But you are guarded against me."

He winced, wishing he didn't understand what she meant. "What would you have of me?"

"That you trust me." Lavellan's chin dipped and she looked up at him almost uncertainly through her lashes. "I know you value your control, but you don't need to be so controlled with me."

Self-control had saved his life more times than he cared to count. It was all that had stood between him and demonic possession, between him and addiction, between him and madness. He fought hard for it, every day, because it was always so tempting to give in; to just take the damn lyrium, to lose his temper, give in to fear and begin to listen when the voices whispered to him.

"Love-"

"Just do as you please with me," she enticed, drawing near enough that he could feel her breath on his collarbone. "Don't hold back."

He barely remembered what happened next. Somehow her back was against the moss, he was between her legs, and the flimsy nightgown was rucked up around her hips.

Little gasps filled his ears as Lavellan panted in time to his thrusts. Their hands tangled above her head. This dainty woman led armies and commanded the faith of thousands, and here she lay beneath him, whispering his name and sighing words of elvhen he didn’t understand. But though the words were alien to him, he understood the passion behind them, and she didn’t need to tell him she loved him for him to feel it in her every touch and whispered word.

He desired her with an intensity that scared him. It was something fast spiralling beyond his control. It was no mere youthful infatuation but an intense love that threatened to consume every part of his life. Even to be this close, to be moving inside her and feeling her body pressed along the length of his own did not seem like it was enough.

“ _Ma sa’lath_ ,” she whispered, her brow creasing as he hooked her knee higher and thrust deeper, harder into her soft body. Her legs tightened around him and her hips lifted in an eager rhythm.

That knot of desire wound tighter and tighter in the pit of his belly and threatened to explode. He choked on a cry as his hand slammed against the moss and his fingers twisted deep into the loamy earth.

“I c-can't-” He tried to withdraw, but Lavellan cradled his face to hers.

"Let go," she pleaded.

He gave a harsh cry, half in defeat, half in release. She held him tight to her as his cock jumped and pulsed deep within her, filling her with his seed.

Lavellan lay transfixed, wide eyes regarding him in wonder as he massaged her hip. The last of the sensations ebbed, leaving nothing but pure satisfaction. It was perfect. Too perfect. 

He lifted his head to whisper his adoration.

The desire demon's smiling triumph flashed before his eyes like a terrible joke. 

Guilt and nausea rolled through him. Cullen squeezed his eyes shut and pushed himself away from the Inquisitor as if the contact of their skin burned him.

"Cullen," she gasped, lifting herself up to gaze at him in bewilderment. "What's wrong?"

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, looking at the evidence of his release smeared across his own thigh. “I’m so sorry.”

  
  
  
  
  



	16. Unplanned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the author is terribly sorry for such a long delay.

**Unplanned**

****  
  


 

Divine Justinia made her way down the ranks, flanked by her left and right hand. They would march for the Frostback mountains tomorrow and begin preparations at the Temple Sacred Ashes, and for now she had called them together to inspect the modest force she had accumulated. She nodded to soldiers, accepted their salutes with a graceful smile, and stopped occasionally to be introduced to notable personages. After greeting a few grand clerics and Ferelden ambassadors, she moved on to a young fidgeting Antivan woman.

“This is Lady Josephine Montilyet,” Sister Leliana said. “A diplomat in the Antivan court and a former bard. Her network of contacts among the nobility is formidable, as is her head for numbers.”

“The Lady Nightingale is too kind,” Lady Josephine said, flustered and blushing. She still managed to execute a textbook perfect curtsey for the Divine. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Your Holiness.”

“You have come a long way from home to serve these peace talks, child,” Divine Justinia said.

“I-It’s an honour, Your Holiness. There is nothing more important in Thedas right now than the success of your conclave.”

“And we shall need all the diplomats we can find if we are to make both sides see reason,” the Divine nodded once more and moved on.

“Ser Cullen Rutherford, former Knight-Commander of Kirkwall,” announced Cassandra, a wry smile upon her lips.

The Divine paused, her eyebrows raised. “The same young man I met before?” she asked Cassandra.

“Indeed, Your Holiness.”

Cullen bowed. “Divine Justinia. I hope I prove worthy for your cause.”

She surveyed him carefully. The armour that had once hung from him like loose flesh on bones was now snug, and the hollows of his cheeks had filled out. There was still no hiding the dark marks beneath his eyes or the paleness of his skin, but she smiled at what she saw. “I would not have recognised you,” she said. “I am glad to see you did not step down after all.”

“Thank you, Your Holiness.”

She nodded and moved on. Cullen caught Rylen’s eye and inwardly groaned. He wished his knight-captain would stop smiling at him like that, as if the other man might burst into happy tears at any moment. It was premature relief, at best. While some of the physical side effects of withdrawal had eased, others had only intensified. Those were easier to hide at least. For now.

Once the Divine had greeted everyone, she took her place before the sunburst throne. She spoke of her trust in them and her hope for the conclave. She reiterated their role; to be moderators and peacekeepers, and to uphold the chantry’s authority over two powerful, renegade factions. The word ‘inquisition’ was never mentioned, but the parallels were being drawn, and Cullen had seen the book Cassandra had thrust into his hands. He knew that the Divine intended to build more than a simple peacekeeping force for one conclave.

After the induction drew to a close, the gathered crowd dispersed to see to their preparations for the journey ahead. As Cullen turned to leave, Cassandra intercepted him.

“The armed units will gather at the white spire tomorrow morning,” she told him. “The Divine wishes for you to take their command.”

Cullen swung a startled gaze on her. So far he had understood that he would be leading his own people only. “All of them?”

“Is that a problem?” she quirked a brow at him, daring him to object.

“I was of the, uh, understanding that you would be commanding the armed forces,” he said.

“I am the Divine’s right hand… my place is at her side,” she answered with a simple shrug. “It is not something I desire, either way. Your experience is greater, and I daresay your temperament is more appropriate.”

Cullen looked away, uncertain what response to give.

“You do not want this? she asked baldly.

“My health is not what it was,” he admitted awkwardly. “I do not think it wise to put a man like myself in charge of so many lives.”

“It is a short-term position… hopefully,” Cassandra reassured him. “And I will be watching. If your condition deteriorates, I have the Divine’s authority to remove you.”

Her even stare made him wonder exactly how she would remove him, and if it would involve a sword. “It’s not simply a matter of my physical condition,” he told her quietly. “If I should… if my mind cannot-”

“I am aware,” she interrupted. “But you are not alone here. You will command the armed forces, but you are answerable to me. You are answerable to the Divine. You are her general, and you have the weight of the chantry behind you, so do not feel you shoulder the responsibility of leadership as you did in Kirkwall. Your responsibility is to protect your men - and you in turn will be our responsibility, Commander.”

“Commander…” he echoed, shaking his head faintly.

“If all goes well, you will never even have to unsheathe your sword,” she told him.

“If it was likely to go smoothly, we wouldn’t be here,” he pointed out.

Cassandra merely grunted her displeasure and sauntered away. “Hope for the best… plan for the worst.”

 

* * *

 

It had been months… and still the names arrived on his desk. Cullen accepted the report, now almost numbed to the numbers the scout recited. More bodies unearthed beneath the temple, more names from Haven. A full excavation would take years, and they would never recover everyone. Cullen thought wearily of the new batch of condolence letters he would have to write, but he would not leave one family without closure if he could help it.

But there were just so many names.

“Are you alright, sir?” asked the scout, noticing that Cullen was resting his forehead in his palm.

“A headache is all,” he answered, with just enough bite to ward off further inquisitiveness. “Any word of the Herald?”

“I believe Sister Leliana has received a crow from the Hinterlands today,” the scout told him.

“Nothing for me?”

“N-None that I’m aware, sir.”

“That is all. You may go.” Cullen suddenly felt very irritable. He dropped the list of names on his desk and went to lean on the wall by the arrowslit, as if he might be able to see all the way to the Hinterlands if he just looked hard enough. The clouds hung low and grey like wads of soaked wool, touching the tops of the mountains and hiding their peaks. It had been raining lightly for most of the morning, but it had slackened off if only for a brief respite.

Tugging his fur collar more tightly around his neck, Cullen left his office and went in search of something to occupy his mind. Skyhold had fallen into a lull of activity. Yesterday he had sent two units off to Kirkwall and Guard Captain Aveline, finally fulfilling his promise to aid her against Prince Sebastian, and though he would rather have sent more, Leliana had cautioned him to hold most of his troops in reserve. She expected new intelligence soon; the kind that would demand as many of their people and resources as possible. Corypheus had been too quiet for too long, and for a madman pushed to desperation, Cullen didn’t like it.

The cloister gardens were quiet when he entered them. Puddles gathered on the cobbled pathways and faint singing from the chantry hinted at where most of the clergy had disappeared to in order to escape the rain. Cullen made his way to the stone pavilion where the chess table was set up, apparently abandoned mid-game by the last players.

He sat down and observed the board for a moment. White was three moves away from a checkmate, but judging from the haphazard arrangement of the other pieces, the white player probably hadn’t realised this. Cullen sighed, and slowly began setting the pieces back in their proper place.

The soft tip-tap of rain on the roof of the pavilion began again. The air cooled to a fine chill in the empty gardens, and Cullen sat back, staring at the way water dripped off the leaves of a nearby hibiscus.

Summer was reaching its height in the rest of Thedas, but here, it was an eternal winter. It would be too easy to forget the passage of time in Skyhold. Little changed, except the faces that passed through the gates and the pieces on the war table. It had been over a month since the Inquisitor had left, and it felt like time - even the air itself - stood still. They’d exchanged messages like they always had, but two weeks ago the correspondence had dried up. The last thing she had written was that she was in the Free Marches, but Leliana had informed him last week that she was now as far south as the Korcari Wilds, hunting down a missing unit of soldiers.

Massaging away the impending headache from his temples, Cullen leant forward and moved a white pawn, followed quickly by a black mage, then a white cleric. He kept moving pieces, but it was awfully dull, playing by oneself, and he’d played this gambit many times over.

There was movement in the corner of his vision, and Cullen realised he was no longer alone in the garden. He ignored it, until a small mouth-breather in an over-large fur coat appeared next to the table. The boy, no older than ten or eleven, watched silently as Cullen moved the pieces around the board, until finally Cullen reached for a black piece-

And the boy moved quicker, selecting the black templar and moving it to meet a white mage.

Cullen dropped his hand. “Sit, if you’re going to play,” he told the boy.

And so the boy sat and played, and he wasn’t even half bad. He missed a few opportunities to maneuver himself close to Cullen’s queen, but considering most children his age would rather tip the board over, he had promising skill.

“You’re Lady Morrigan’s son,” he said, as the boy was unable to resist taking one of his pawns instead of showing patience and waiting for a templar.

“Yes,” said the boy.

Cullen had heard from Sister Leliana that the Empress’ ‘Arcane Adviser’ had arrived with a boy in tow, a fact that seemed to mildly displease the spymaster. There was history there, he thought, but Leliana was a deeply private person at the best of times and she wouldn’t share.

The arcane adviser in question was not far from her child, and soon another exited the rain into the shelter of the pavilion. “Kieran,” Lady Morrigan said smoothly, “you must not bother the Commander, he is a busy man.”

“We’re just playing,” the boy said, wrinkling his nose.

“Did you finish your book already?” she asked him.

The boy squirmed lower in his seat. “N-yes?”

“Off you go. No slacking, young man.”

Kieran sighed and dropped from his seat. He disappeared off through the rainy gardens as his mother took his place at the game. He was glad to see even she was not impervious to the chill and had decided to a wear a rough cloak over her otherwise… meagre outfit.

“I hope he was not troubling you,” she said, settling into her chair comfortably.

“Not at all,” he said, moving his templar towards her king. “He’s an… interesting young man.”

“That he is,” she agreed.

“I hope you’ve found Skyhold to your liking,” he said.

“‘Tis comfortable enough,” she said vaguely. “Not as comfortable as an Orlesian palace, but more comfortable than a cave in the far reaches of the wilds.”

“An interesting place to raise a child, I imagine.”

She smiled like a feral cat. “You cannot imagine.”

Morrigan took his mage held the piece close to her cheek as she watched his responding move.

“What became of the boy’s father?” he asked her.

“That is not a subject I am at liberty to discuss, Commander,” she told him coyly. “If you think there is enough political turmoil in Thedas right now, Kieran’s father is a matter you would do well to leave alone. Although… you do remind me of him.”

“I - uh-” Cullen coughed and looked hard at the chessboard.

“A superficial resemblance, I am sure, and do not fear for you virtue, Commander, I have no interest. What little I see of that man in my child causes me endless vexation. Ah,” she moved her king. “Check.”

He moved his queen beyond her reach. “So you’ve raised the boy alone?”

“An arrangement preferred by all.”

“Was that difficult?”

Morrigan snatched up his other mage and bracketed his queen between two clerics. “It is always difficult to raise a child. It is also the easiest thing in the world. If it were not, humans would have died out long ago, for there is no shortage of idiots filling this world with more idiots.” She slanted her head to one side. “Why the curiosity, Commander? Most of the people here are only interested in my connections to the Empress, or my history with the Hero of Ferelden. You ask me about children.”

“I shall stop then,” he said shortly, and slipped a pawn behind her queen. “Checkmate.”

“Hmm.” Her nose twitched. “We do the best with the hand we are dealt.”

That was another way of blaming Kieran for losing too many pieces, but it was an apt phrase and true for most circumstances. Cullen didn’t smile over his victory, and when he looked up at Lady Morrigan he noticed she was looking back curiously.

“We have met before, you and I,” she said softly. “Many years ago.”

Cullen closed his eyes, fighting the impression that he had indeed seen her face before. A younger face, blurred behind a shimmering barrier-

“I do not recall,” he said, somewhat stiffly.

“There is no reason you should,” she responded. “Although to think… a decade on and here we are. I am a doting mother, and you are a breath away from leading the world into its next Exalted March.”

“That would imply we answer to the chantry,” he pointed out.

“The chantry will answer to the Inquisition, soon enough, I think,” she retorted.

He frowned. “The Inquisition would never get that far. The intention is to dismantle it once our work is done.”

“And what work is that? Stopping Corypheus? Healing the veil? Bringing the mages and templars to heel? Keeping the Tevinter Imperium at bay? There is always going to be more work and more battles to win,” Morrigan leant forward as she reset the board, gathering her pieces and lining them up one at a time. “You have created an impressive organisation, but it has grown beyond you now. To dissolve it would simply undo all that has been achieved. The Empress reigns because of the Inquisitor’s support. The mages and templars have ceased hostilities because they fear your soldiers. If the Inquisition ceases to exist, so too does this peace. The chantry knows this. It’s no coincidence that they seek their next Divine from amongst the ranks of the Inquisition. Then the Inquisitor’s authority will be supreme.”

“That is not something she desires,” he said. Lavellan was uncomfortable enough with her current responsibilities.

“Regardless. The Inquisition is her monster, and it will only come to an end the day she dies.”

“What?” He shot her a sharp look.

Morrigan met it impassively. “Have you ever heard of a retired prophet, Commander? This is her role. And it will be her role till she dies… you know this.”

He did. They had talked once, oh so briefly and fearfully of life after the Inquisition. But he had not been able to picture it clearly, because he knew all Lady Morrigan said was true. There was no life after the Inquisition. It began with Lavellan, and it would only end with her too.

A selfish part of him never wanted the Inquisition to end, but he was unpleasantly aware that people like Lavellan…

Well, they almost always died young and violently.

Lady Morrigan looked out over the cloister gardens and noted that the rain had stopped. “We should spar again some other time, on more equal terms, perhaps.” She rose sedately and drifted away across the garden, past a nervous looking recruit who seemed to have been loathe to interrupt before. Cullen caught his eye, sighed, and beckoned him over.

Ever since Barrow had interrupted him attempting to kiss the Inquisitor against the parapets during one of their daily strolls, the youth had tried to be more careful when approaching the Commander. Not careful enough, as it turned out, the evening Barrow had walked into the tower office and found Cullen swearing in frustration over his unsteadily rocking desk - not in itself bad, except Cullen’s britches had also been around his knees and the Inquisitor had been bent over the desk before him, too busy trying to smother her laughter to notice the interruption. Merely interrupting a kiss had earned him a very personal glare promising death. Interrupting him in the middle of the difficult task of trying to bring the Inquisitor to orgasm while she was in the throes of a giggling fit had earned him a book to the face and a furious shout that if Cullen ever suffered another interruption, he would be driven to murder.

Now Barrow seemed disinclined to approach the Commander when he was with anyone. Which was a shame, because he would rather have liked an interruption from Lady Morrigan’s unrelenting realism.

“What is it?” he asked, as Barrow handed him a rolled note.

“Sister Leliana thought you would like to see this,” said the nervous messenger.

Cullen flattened the paper and propped his jaw in his hand as he read.

It was in the Inquisitor’s hand but addressed to Leliana. This was not unusual, since the spymaster was responsible for the carrier crows and always received incoming messages first. Lavellan had found the missing soldiers alive, she wrote, and asked Leliana to inform Cullen of the fact. They would all be returning presently.

He hadn’t seen her since they’d parted ways after the Shrine of Dumat. He had returned to Skyhold, and she had continued on to the east. But now the Inquisitor was finally coming home.

Cullen handed back the parchment to Barrow. “Give my thanks to Sister Leliana.”

 

* * *

 

 

The Temple of Sacred Ashes was an astonishing sight to behold, and it was hard to believe that it had been lost to civilisation for so long. Yet in the space of ten years it had been transformed from a ruin wedged in a mountainside to a mecca to rival the Grand Cathedral in Orlais.

The way up to the temple was steep and narrow; a hard climb even for the young and fit. They called it ‘Pilgrim’s Way’. Cullen wondered if the Divine may have chosen this location for the conclave merely because by the time the embittered rebels arrived at the conclave, they would be too exhausted to pick a fight with each other.

Mages and templars had been arriving in dribs and drabs for the last few days, and though the peace had held, tension lay oppressively thick in the air. Now, the day before the conclave, the majority of the attendants were beginning to arrive - mages, templars, clerics, observers, foreign dignitaries, and even just the usual pilgrims too. People poured up Pilgrim’s Way, and Cullen had his work cut out patrolling the mountain, looking for those early signs of brewing trouble.

Mounted on horseback, he viewed the arriving crowds. If things were to go bad, they would go bad quickly. An ugly look could quickly turn into an argument, a shove, and then mayhem. But there was hope too. If this many people had come seeking a peaceful solution, then that was half the battle won already.

A thunder of hoofbeats along the path ahead sent a group of grey wardens quickly diving out of the way. Rylen pulled his horse to a halt and called to Cullen. “Snowdrift! At the east temple.”

They had a few codewords for trouble to avoid alarming the other attendants, and Snowdrift was one such word. Cullen spurred his horse to action and charged up the mountain path. He heard the problem before he saw it, and as he galloped into the courtyard of the eastern temple, he scowled. There were too many people. It should never have been allowed to get this crowded. He saw Lady Josephine at the edge of the agitated crowd, and though she had been a worthy diplomat so far, this one had spiralled beyond her abilities.

The nexus of the trouble were a handful of voices at the centre of the paved plateau. Cullen urged his horse forward, and it shouldered its way through the crowd to reach the heart of the matter. Most of the crowd were not involved but they were a powder keg. One spark and the whole courtyard would blow.

He saw the trouble-makers at once: at least one furious red-haired mage was screaming at a templar whose hand gripped the hilt of his sword. Cullen drove his horse between them. “Take your hand off that sword!” he growled at the templar to his right. “And you! Mages are to stay on the western side! Leave at once!”

“I do not answer to templars!” the mage snarled. “And this man was our Knight-Commander! He belongs in the gallows for what he did to us-”

“I am not your wet-nurse - do not bother me with your gripes!” Cullen interrupted harshly. “Go back to your quarters at once, or you will be escorted from the mountain!”

“Listen to the man, Isadore,” smirked the templar commander.

Cullen pointed at him. “You would do well to be silent,” he warned icily. “If peace does not hold here, I will let the Divine know exactly whom to blame.”

To the crowd he raised his voice. “Disperse at once! You came here looking for peace; do not scupper that so soon over old grievances!”

It worked. Barely. He had won himself no friends among either side, but they at least parted ways and soon the crowd had thinned to a more tolerable proportion. Still, he would have to speak to Leliana about opening up the northern temple to house more mages. Overcrowding and hot tempers would end the peace talks before they’d even begun at this rate.

“Thank you, Commander,” sighed Josephine as she drew alongside his horse. “A few more minutes and it would have come to blows, I’m sure of it. I couldn’t make them see reason.”

“I’ve been juggling templars and mages for most of my life, my Lady,” he told her. “Sometimes you just have to wade in and start cracking heads.”

She winced. “I will… make a note of this.”

Cullen scanned the remnants of the crowd, searching for any signs of further flare up. Most of the people left in the eastern courtyard were templars and the mages were filtering out towards the western gate. Except one. She caught his eye because she did not move in the same pattern as the others. Small, elvhen, and possibly even dalish judging by her tattoos, though she was clearly trying to disguise that with her clothing.

He knew of some mercenaries who had been called in to assist with peacekeeping, and there were probably some dalish apostates among their number that would account for this odd, contradictory appearance. But she was alone and acting far too suspiciously for his liking.

Where the other mages flowed towards the gate, she headed towards the temple proper - an area still out of bounds until tomorrow.

Cullen dismounted and handed the reins of his horse to a puzzled Josephine, and set off after the elven mage. She had slipped down a passage running behind the eastern temple. When he reached the mouth of the passage he saw her up ahead, just as she disappeared through a doorway into the undercroft.

She was definitely up to something. With his mouth set in a grim line, Cullen followed her down into the dank, underground passages that formed a labyrinthine network of tunnels under the temple. Ten years worth of exploration and excavations had barely scratched the surface on how far or deep the undercroft went. It was out of bounds to all at the conclave because of the danger of getting lost, crushed by a cave-in, or even meeting dragon spawn; and a warning sign on the door had said as much. Either the mage couldn’t read, or this was exactly where she wanted to be.

He saw movement in the corridor up ahead and called out. “You! Stop right there!”

Dark eyes snapped towards him, and then she was off and running.

Cullen ran after her.

* * *

 

He’d watched her return from the battlements. She’d been gone over a month and he’d expected her to look more weary and travel-worn than she did, but her head was high and her clothes were new and clean. Mud caked her boots, but that was all. In her wake rode a unit of rescued soldiers and several pack horses to carry the all the goods and trophies she’d accumulated over the weeks. And no sooner had she disappeared into the great hall than a runner came to him with summons for a war table meeting.

No ‘hello’ or ‘how have you been’. Just business.

At the war table they gathered, and Cullen watched the Inquisitor closely as she paced the floor slowly, her dark eyes lowered at all times to the map between them. She didn’t look at him, even when she prompted him for updates on their troop movements. He informed her of the power struggle in Kirkwall, of the dwarven slaves freed from Venatori control in the north-west, and of a rumour Vivienne had picked up that Divine Justinia was alive and being held prisoner by the Inquisition.

“Leliana,” the Inquisitor turned to her spymaster.

“It will be dealt with in short order,” Leliana nodded.

“Then that will be all.”

Meeting adjourned, the Inquisitor strode from the room. Cullen hesitated a moment, fist balled against the table, then took off after her. Out in the great hall he saw her pass through one of the servant doors into the undercroft. He followed at a steady pace as she descended into the lower corridors and past the warm kitchens. He knew Skyhold well enough now that these subterranean passages held no mystery to him now, and he had a good idea of where she was heading.

The further she headed into the quiet underbelly of the fortress, the more the normal ambient clatter faded away… and it wasn’t long before she realised she was being followed. Dark eyes flashed towards him, but instead of stopping, she sped up.

Cullen stopped, a feeling of deja vu washing over him.

* * *

The temple tunnels were winding. Bricked walls and square corridors gave way to bare rock and caverns carved by water, and Cullen’s boots splashed through puddles and slid over slippery calcium deposits.

The elven mage was fast and almost silent as she ran. She quickly disappeared from sight down the lengthening corridors, and when the passage opened into a larger cave that connected to at least a dozen other tunnels, he wondered if he’d lost her for good.

He was deliberating whether or not to head back when he heard a sharp, startled shout, and then the elf girl came running out of one of the tunnels.

“Stop!” he shouted once again, but she ignored him and took off down another tunnel.

What had startled her quickly became apparent, as a swarm of cave spiders came skittering out of the tunnel mouth from which she’d just bolted. Cullen had no choice but to draw his sword and smack it against his shield, drawing the attention of the arachnids of unusual size towards himself. They were not intelligent creatures, and quickly gave up chasing one small prey in favour of the larger, noisier one that wasn’t running away.

Spiders had never frightened him as much as they did others. Their legs easily snapped apart under the blows of even the most blunt sword, and only their bite was dangerous. Cullen dispatched three easily, but the fourth and final spider was smaller and quicker and - judging by the patterns on its flat body - probably poisonous. Cullen rattled his shield again, hoping to either provoke it into coming closer or to send it scurrying away.

A blast of ice struck the creature from behind. At once it shrivelled and let out a dying hiss, and Cullen looked across its frosted corpse to the mage standing at the mouth of one of the tunnels. So she hadn’t been quite so heartless as to abandon him to the spiders she had disturbed, even though her assistance had been quite unnecessary.

But if he thought she now intended to stop for a chat he was mistaken. The second he took a step toward her, she was off again, like a hare in spring being chased by a fox. Cullen gave chase a second time, but like before, she was too fast and before long he found himself alone in the cold tunnels beneath the Temple of Ashes, none the wiser about who he had been chasing or why.

* * *

 

She darted around a corner but Cullen had already caught up to her. Catching her by the shoulder, he pushed her into the wall and trapped her there with his arms.

“Well done, you caught me,” she said, looking up at him through her lashes. “Now what do you intend to do with me?”

All the fear and uncertainty and hurt that had wound around his heart like a constricting rope loosened in the same instant he kissed her. It was harder than their usual kisses, more furtive and hungry, desperate and yet still tender. He told her how much he’d missed her without words, and thrust his fingers through her hair to control the kiss.

He didn’t want to stop there. He wanted to tear her clothes off, inspect every inch of her skin for injury and kiss any bruise he found. He wanted her against the wall, legs spread and gasps filling his ears-

So he stopped, uncertain that if he waited any longer he would have much self control left. She could probably feel how aroused he was, as their bodies pressed tightly together and left little to the imagination. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes were closed as he laid his forehead against hers and just cherished the small things he’d missed without realising - her smell, the coolness of her hands, the way her lips turned red and swollen after he kissed them.

“You stopped writing,” he accused softly.

She didn’t open her eyes. “I’m a coward,” she whispered.

“Says the woman who killed a dragon last week.” He’d had to hear it from Leliana, of course.

“Killing a dragon is easy compared to some things.”

Dark eyes slid open and fixed on him, swirling with colour and emotions he couldn’t name. “I couldn’t explain in a letter, and I couldn’t think of what to say to you if I couldn’t say that… and so I ended up saying nothing at all.”

The first tendrils of dread wormed their way through his heart. She didn’t want him anymore. Cassandra had warned him and he hadn’t listened, and he’d promised himself that he wouldn’t care… but his heart was in his mouth and she could take it from him and shred it if she chose to. “You’re here now,” he said thickly, trying to shore up his internal defences, “What is it?”

Her gaze darted away as if courage might fail her again, but after a moment she visibly firmed her resolve. “I’m going to have a child,” she said prosaically, but then her lip began to tremble.

****


End file.
